


Unreliable Narrator

by Analinea



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Abuse, Established Relationship, Graphic Description of Injuries, Hurt Stiles, Investigation, M/M, Near Death Experience, Past Abuse, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, SPOILER TAG FOR THE STORY: evil twin, i think, mention of hotel california episode, murders, not season 4 compliant, slight alterations of past canon events, so like description of bodies, so mention of suicidal ideas, very quick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-14 11:41:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9180013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Analinea/pseuds/Analinea
Summary: A string of murders seems tied to Stiles in some way. His past catches up with him, and the Pack will do everything to help him solve this. But it's not as simple as it looks.





	1. Day 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Firstly, story infos! Don't skip this part!**  
>  The tags are for general triggery stuff, so if you feel like I missed something tell me! Also, I tagged for later chapters as well so not all tags apply to the first chapter. I didn't want to spoil the plot twist in the last chapter though, so no tags for that haha  
> This story is completely written! But! I didn't check over and edit the next chapters yet, so I can't promise a regular posting schedule; if that's an issue but you're still interested just subscribe and wait for me to be finished with it :) It'll be 5 chapters long.  
> The bits in italic are kinda Stiles diary/personal thoughts, the numbers before each are his age at the time (I'm saying this here because I couldn't find a way to make that clearer in the story without making it too heavy)
> 
>  **Secondly, story time! You can skip this one!**  
>  I started writing this almost a year ago, it was one of my first fic idea! I hated the way I wrote it, abandonned it for months, went back to it, hated it again, started again and managed to hate it less so I finished it \o/ I'm still kinda meh about it because it's not my usual writing style and I have trouble completing long stories so I feel like it doesn't flow really well...meaning I also barely checked over the first chapter because I reread and rewrote it so much I felt like puking just thinking about it xD  
> It went a bit off way of the first idea I had for the story, but somehow the title I chose in the beginning still works haha 
> 
>  
> 
> **Huge thanks to my best friend who still doesn't read fanfic ([but makes awesome vids](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC6iqBwQUpSawyLheDV_chKA)) and still helped me through my plot issues <3 **
> 
>  
> 
> **Now that that's said, hope you enjoy!**

**Prologue**

 

Derek, covered in blood, surged through the E.R. doors following closely a gurney wheeled by professionally frantic paramedics. He kept running after it, pushed out of the way by nurses trying to do their jobs.

“ Stiles,” he called in a hoarse voice, and it was all he managed to say before he was stopped from going after him. He barely listened to the nurse barring the way. He could force the way if he wanted to. He didn't.

It registered to him, then, that the nurse was Melissa. She looked him deeply into the eyes when Derek looked at her, and after a tense second she nodded with tight lips. She turned away to follow Stiles.

He sidestepped to let the second gurney pass by, a shadow lying on it. The Sheriff came to stand next to him.

Derek closed his eyes for a second. Tried to chase away the images of the night, the blood on Stiles, dripping on the floor of the ambulance. Tried to forget the words that Stiles, fighting for consciousness, had slurred right before he disappeared behind the heavy doors.

Derek had been the only one to hear him. It rang again and again in his ears.

“ Never trust the one telling the story.”

 

**Day1:**

 

When Stiles started telling the story, he started with a body cut in half. He was young and still innocent in many ways, but he already knew that all the stories to come would eventually go back to that particular night.

Now, he never lied about any of the events that followed, not really. Some things felt so obvious to him that he never thought to recount them, like how he met Scott ; some were too painful to even think about.

 

This story, the story leading to all the important reveals, fittingly started...with a body.

Or, more accurately, the card that came with it.

Sheriff John Stilinski, called in the early hours of a day that was already uncomfortably hot, crouched in front of the victim, his deputies standing behind him and obediently waiting for him to finish looking for evidence.

The man appeared to be in his mid-forties, blue eyes staring forever at nothing, surprise etched on his features. The cause of death was obvious, at least to an unknowing eyes: a deep wound on the victim's abdomen, blood pouring both out of it and the man's mouth. Of course, John knew the truth, knew what the blackness of the blood meant the second his eyes landed on it: wolfsbane.

This was a supernatural related case.

The thing the Sheriff avoided looking at for the past three minutes had now to be at the center of his attention again. It made his heart beat faster around the feeling of ice filling his ribcage.

On the floor, at the end of the arm purposefully placed to be clearly noticed, was the man's four-fingered hand.

By the color of the blood, the index finger had been cut off before the killing blow. It had stained red the card tucked between the middle finger and the remaining phalanx of the index. On the white glassy paper was printed one word in black bold capital letter.

“ MINE”

John sighed, called to all his professionalism to stay calm and collected, hide that he was already crumbling inside. He ran a hand down his tired face and got up, raising a finger at his deputies to make them wait little longer and walking out of earshot. Taking out his cellphone, he dialed a familiar number. He loathed to have to make this call.

On the third ring, it was picked up.

“ Stiles?” John said, voice shaking slightly despite his best efforts. Had it been anyone else, it would've stayed unnoticed, but Stiles knew him too well. “He's back.”

 

10♦  _ He left. He left and there's a hole in my heart but words on my skin to remember that it's better this way. I'm cut in half, _ _ S _

16♦  _ Maybe it's why I needed so much to see this dead body in the woods. To finally see the truth of me like a mirror never shows. _

17♦  _ The Nogitsune’s trapped. I'm myself again but torn the same. Does that make me a quarter of who I used to be? The words disappeared from this new body after I got puked out. I don't know what to think of it. The fucking fox walked with my own scars before he crumbled to ashes...he probably loved it. _

 

John looked at his son slumped in the chair across from his desk at the station. He was turning the card over and over between his fingers, making the two sides alternate: mine, blank, mine, blank. It was highly probable that at this point, the word didn't mean anything anymore for Stiles. God knew the Sheriff shuddered every time he heard it, but it was not the same.

For him, it was a reminder of his failure as a parent. It was a reminder of Claudia's sadness, it was a thorn in his heart that's been there for so many years he got used to the pain; until a single word on a card twisted it and it felt as vivid as the first day of feeling this stab.

Stiles threw the card on the desk with a quick flick of the wrist, and looked at the ceiling with a sigh. “He even took the time to print it on special paper. The fucker always had a thing for theatrics.”

John opened his mouth to correct his son's language, but then gave up. They had a bigger issue than curse words that were, in the end, inevitable in everybody's mouth.

He didn't like the look on Stiles' face. It was resignation, almost indifference. It wasn't giving up, not exactly, but it still wasn't reassuring to feel like his kid had already thrown the towel. Maybe he was in shock and in a few minutes or hours, he would fully realize what was looming over their head and start to cry, scream, and get to work to get rid of the problem.

Whatever these feelings were, it just added to the circles under Stiles' eyes and the weight on his shoulders. It had only been five months since the possession, and as much as he pretended to, Stiles wasn't better. He had held on for as long as school was on, helped by the Pack with everything he missed. This would just make the insomnia and the nightmares worse, where they slowly started to let on.

So John swore to himself, in that instant, to support Stiles fully and put his own feelings at the back of his mind to deal with later. There had been so many times when he hadn't been a dad, he was ready to make it up to his kid.

He caught the way Stiles was rubbing absently at his ribs, on his left side, and as soon as Stiles' noticed where his dad was looking, he stopped and put his hand back on his lap.

“ What do you want to do?” John asked, not bringing up what just happened. Stiles looked back at him, but there still were no emotions on his face.

“ I can't decide alone, dad, we're both in it,” he replied in a tired voice. John winced, mentally slapping himself for his choice of words.

“ I meant about the pack, kiddo. I swear to you you're not alone in this,” he strongly declared, straightening up in his chair. Stiles smiled, it was small but it was something. Then he became serious again.

“ I don't know...,” he hesitated, looking down at his hands. “Do we really have another choice than to tell them everything? They're not safe, you and I know that, and we need their help, don't we?” He didn't wait for a reply. “So it wouldn't be fair to keep them in the dark, especially when I've been screaming to anyone who would listen that we  _ need _ to communicate, if we want to be efficient. No more secrets.”

He raised his head and locked gazes with his father. The silence lingered for a few seconds.

“ Okay, then, kid. I'll call the pack for a meeting tonight, you go rest in the meantime.”

Stiles stayed still, like he was considering arguing with this, but he eventually nodded and got up. John followed him to the office door and caught him by the arm before he could leave without another word, hugged his son like he hadn't since he got him back from the Nogitsune. There were hard times ahead, a race they had to win, and if they didn't...

He let go of Stiles and watched his kid get out of the station and into his car. Then he got his phone out of his pocket, and made his second phone call of the morning.

 

Derek hung up the phone, sighing. John had been concise, only telling him about the new murder and its supernatural nature, brushing on the delicate subject that Stiles was linked to it. They would have a Pack meeting that night and Stiles would explain everything then, but Derek didn't need to wait to know what was happening. He understood as soon as he heard about the card.

Stiles had never really explained, only giving Derek half explanations when he let his guard down, but Derek had  _ seen _ . It was enough.

They had been together for almost a year, now, not really keeping it a secret, but not advertising it either. It hadn't come out in the open until after the Nogitsune; when it had been clear to anyone that Derek had barely slept in all the time the creature had possessed Stiles, and when he ran to him just after it had been defeated to take him in his arms and kiss him senseless.

The Sheriff had known, obviously: Stiles couldn't bear keeping things from him anymore. The others had been surprised but not shocked by it. 

Derek still remembered his own astonishment when Stiles had come to him during the summer before the Alpha Pack, saying he wanted to help and awkwardly but firmly asking him if he'd want them to go on a date together. Things had evolved quickly from there.

As quickly as the general situation went to hell. They had been seeing each other all this time, yes, but they’d barely had time to be  _ together _ .

But it wasn't the only reason for John to call Derek first.

It was a question of habit, firstly: Derek had been an Alpha when John started calling him on official or unofficial investigations business; but also of their agreement that if Scott could be kept out of things, it was better.

Scott was a True Alpha, but he also was a kid, and he had the right to grow up like one as much as he could. A lot of the smaller cases hadn't ever made it to his ears; or even Stiles’, which was a miracle in itself, considering. Derek sometimes thought that Stiles turned a blind eye to it on purpose, too happy that his father and his boyfriend got along and solved crimes like a badass movie duo, and also sharing their concern for Scott. Too bad he often felt like the same couldn't be extended to himself.

Now, Derek was waiting to hear Stiles’ car down the road. He didn't doubt that he would come directly to his apartment -brand new, thanks to Cora’s efforts to convince him to move out of the loft- to get some rest and process what was happening.

And he wasn't wrong: a few minutes after the phone call, the familiar rumble of the Jeep was heard, then the mechanic noise of the elevator. Derek went to his door and waited for Stiles to come up, leaning against his door frame.

What he saw when Stiles stepped out of the elevator made him frown. The human looked like a robot, moving on autopilot, barely looking at Derek before burying himself in his arms. Derek rubbed soothing circles on Stiles' back, guiding him inside and into the bedroom before sitting the both of them down on the edge of the mattress.

The room was silent for a few minutes, before Stiles breath started to hitch and Derek felt warm tears run down his neck and on his shirt’s collar. He looked around him as he waited for Stiles to calm down, still marveling at the sight of all of their stuff mixed haphazardly together. They were overdue for a bit of cleaning, but Derek, despite his love for tidiness, liked the mess when it meant that Stiles was spending most of his time here with him.

He still officially lived with his dad, but in the last five months he started coming around more often than not, the Sheriff giving his blessing after a big talk that Derek wouldn't forget any time soon. But John couldn't deny that it was good for Stiles, especially considering all the shifts he had to pull at the station, meaning that he couldn't take care of Stiles as much as he wanted to.

And it hadn't been five easy months, Stiles still having nightmares -when Derek didn't- and still sleepwalking sometimes. But it was starting to get better.

Derek felt Stiles relax in his arms little by little, until general exhaustion and the shock of the morning finally made him fall asleep in Derek’s arm. He laid him down on the bed and decided to stay there a bit to watch over him.

 

It had barely been five minutes since Derek decided to go in the kitchen to make them something to eat: noon came and went thirty minutes ago and even in his sleep Stiles' stomach grumbled. He had slept most of the end of the morning away, but now Derek could hear him wake up.

Stiles’ breathing got heavy and his heartbeat raised dramatically as Derek opened his mouth to call him, making him run to the bedroom. He never got the chance to get there before Stiles darted out of it and into the bathroom.

Derek crouched behind him when he started retching in the toilets, nothing but bile coming up since he hadn't eaten that morning. He tried to discreetly take away any pain and whispered soothing words in Stiles' ear. Stiles started sobbing, and Derek got up to get something to clean his face before taking him into his arms.

“ Derek,” he whined, making the wolf's heart clench. This was bad. This was too much weight to put on Stiles' shoulder after everything, and he wasn't sure he wouldn't break under the pressure. If it happened, they had to consider that this time they wouldn't be able to help Stiles get back on his feet by themselves and with only the help of a once-a-week therapist.

“ 'm sorry,” he muttered again.

“ You have nothing to be sorry for, Stiles,” Derek replied, putting all his conviction behind the words. “We're here to help, we'll all be here to help.” Stiles stiffened in his arms, and he wondered if it was the wrong this to say.

“ I know,” Stiles said, sobs spacing out, “that's what I'm scared of. You should all run because you won't be safe, not with– not with  _ him _ here.” He sniffled, and Derek tightened his embrace, rocking them slightly.

“ We can deal with this,” he whispered, “we'll get through this together. You won't lose us, or me, okay? I promise you. I swear it. Alright?”

It took a second or two, but eventually Stiles nodded and relaxed a little. Derek never swore lightly, and always kept his promises.

“ Do you want to talk about it? Do you feel like eating a little something?” Stiles looked up at Derek thought his eyelashes, face wet with tears and sweat, and he shook his head with an apologetic look.

“ I can't– I'm not really hungry right now, maybe in a few minutes, I just...,” he sighed, closing his eyes and opening them again to look at his fidgeting hands. “I just dreamed of the Nogitsune, when it was right in front of me with my face and I– it's too much, you know? I bet he loved it, messing with me like that, because he knew, he had been in my head, seen my memories and...

“ And can’t help but think that _ he _ knows about what happened and loves it. It's killing me, even if I know how wrong it is and that I'm not his play-toy anymore, that he can find pleasure in things like this. And I can do nothing about it, nothing to fix it, and nothing to stop loving him, deep down. And...,” he hesitated, his scent turning even more sour than it already was, making Derek wrinkle his nose by reflex.

He almost told Stiles that whatever he was about to say, he didn't need to, the scent of his pain and grief and guilt almost unbearable, but Stiles beat him to it.

“ I understand, Derek,” he said, meeting the wolf's eyes again. “I  _ understand _ , after having the Nogitsune in my head, feeling how he enjoyed...I–,” he closed his eyes again, “It's too much, having to understand this. It's like accepting it, and I don't want to be like him.”

“ You're not,” Derek vehemently said when he found his voice again, “you're not like either of them. And you'll never be.”

Stiles sighed. Derek could tell he wasn't entirely convinced by his words, a part of him clinging to the sense that Derek said this only to ease his fears, that he would be too biased to see the wrongness of him. He could see Stiles pushing these feelings down before he gestured at Derek to help him get up, because he needed to if he wanted to function enough to get through this, seeing it to an end that would be happy for them all.

They went in the kitchen and stayed silent as they forced themselves to eat, not really hungry but knowing they needed the energy it would provide them.

The hours until the Pack started arriving passed too slowly and too quickly at the same time. All they could do was lose themselves in each other until the pain faded to a distant ache.

 

12♦ _ I'll always be alone I've accepted that. No one will ever love me like he did. _

13♦  _ Scott. Scott brother brother Brother  _

16♦  _ Or was I just good enough until he found himself a girlfriend? Or is that how it happens between brothers? Just loving new people? Maybe it doesn't mean he loves me less than before or that he never loved me at all. Is that how it happens? How would I know? _

17♦  _ Derek. I love Derek. I think Derek loves me. No, I know he does. He said so. I trust him. _

17♦  _ Scott is still my brother, I know that now. Family means that people sometimes go away for a while thinking that you'll always be there when they come back. Scott just forgot that you have to be there for your family too, but it's okay now. He's back. He's not leaving again, _ ~~_ not like _ ~~ _ It's okay. _

17♦ _ It's not, it's not, I killed her he'll hate me, I killed her, I lost him, I lost her, I'm not a monster, I'm not like him, god, Scott, will you still look at me the same? _

  
  


John closed the door of the cruiser, looking up to find Lydia waiting for him next to her own car. They had arrived roughly at the same time, but Kira and Malia hadn’t waited and already went up to Derek’s apartment.

He had grown really fond of the girl, with her strong will and her quick thinking. She was dressed nicely, as usual, something he quite admired about her. Claudia had been the same, always looking at her best no matter what, until…

“Hey there,” he greeted her, and she offered him a small smile, worry for what could have caused this meeting radiating off of her. She had that same glazed look in her eyes that she’d had the night they went looking for Stiles at Eichen House. John was still mad at himself for yelling at her that night, his anguish at the time not excusing putting this on her shoulders.

He had apologized to her, a few months before, but she’d looked at him intensely and said, “It’s okay, I was wrong anyway.” But the more time that passed, the more he wondered if she really had been that wrong. He didn’t feel like asking Stiles, though, and reminding him of that night and those that followed. Maybe it wasn’t the right strategy, but Stilinskis men were like that.

They went up the stairs in companionable silence. It reminded him of riding the elevator with Allison. It reminded him that they were all kids and that it was unfair, everything they had to deal with. How even he came to rely on the Pack so much.

Stiles met him at the door, all the others turning to them briefly but giving them some semblance of privacy before the meeting began. They shared a one armed hug, patting the other on the shoulder.

“Everyone’s here,” Stiles informed him in a low voice, and John glanced at the living room. The two couches took a lot of space, but they were put to good use even with a smaller Pack than before; Kira, Malia and Scott on one, Lydia going to sit with Derek on the other one but leaving a free space between them for Stiles. John, when he was around, always took the foot rest.

Stiles squeezed himself next to Derek, immediately leaning on him. Derek absently put an arm on his shoulders, and John couldn’t help but feel reassured by the sight. It hadn’t been easy, accepting the relationship, at the beginning. But they had talked about it - _ a lot _ . And he knew Derek could be here for Stiles when he himself couldn’t.

He still had mixed feelings about it, though, years of being a father making him worry anyway, especially after the hard years they went through -from Claudia’s death to the werewolf business. Which, no one in the room except his son and himself knew that he had been in the known from the very beginning.

Stiles hadn’t been supposed to say anything, so they had both played the part. Except for that night just before the Darach kidnapped him: truths had been revealed by Stiles that John had ignored -his beating by Argent, among other things- and he had been so mad. And despite everything, he couldn’t accept the supernatural nature of the case at the time, because he needed so much to have normalcy in their lives again.

That mistake had almost cost his life, and had pushed Stiles to do the sacrifice that had opened his mind to the possession. He thought about that a lot.

But, he thought, chasing the guilt away to ponder on Derek and Stiles’ relationship, he could admit that the maturity those years had given his son could be applied to his love life, also known as one of the only positive things about the situation. He deserved to have it no matter what.

The Nogitsune had almost ruined that, too.

Derek, looking at his Pack members in turn, couldn’t help but think about the exact same thing when his eyes fell on Malia. She was quietly discussing control and shifts with Scott, who was trying to help her change back. Despite being his cousin, they didn’t interact much, even if Scott sometimes called for his help on were matters.

She was pretty adamant about the fact that she wanted to go back to her life in the woods as a coyote. But every time Derek saw her he could see how much she had changed from her first human interactions: more assured, less blunt, and at ease with the others. She seemed to have grown fond of the Pack.

Maybe she’d stay around after learning to do the full shift again, after all. Derek wondered.

He would like for her to stay and learn to know her better. Whatever happened had only indirectly involved her, and she was not at fault in any way.

The first time Stiles had been alone with Derek after the Nogitsune was gone, he’d started crying with everything he had, refusing to let Derek touch him.

“I did something terrible,” he had said, “and you’ll never want to see me again when I tell you.”

“Stiles, whatever happened,” Derek had tried to reassure him with soft words, hands hovering in the air with uncertainty, “it wasn’t your fault. You know that, right?”

“So everyone keeps saying!” Stiles had snapped, “And yet Allison is dead because  _ I _ was possessed, and I cheated on you!” he had yelled.

Derek could still feel the way his blood had frozen in his veins at the admission. Stiles crumbling to the floor and sobbing, and the shock making him unable to drop down on his knees to comfort him for two seconds too long.

His first reflex had been to resent Stiles, but not for the obvious reason. For going to Eichen House in the first place without even telling him about doing it. But Stiles had been in such a bad state: sleep deprived, guilt-ridden, dissociating. Derek couldn’t find it in him to blame Stiles for any decision made at that time, no matter how much it hurt.

He had been intent, that one time, to keep Stiles from destroying their relation because he felt like he deserved it. But his first step had been to call Malia after Stiles passed out from general exhaustion and the added strain of his emotions.

He hadn’t been able to restrain himself from shaking him awake a few minutes later, though, to tell him what Malia had said. “We never had sex, we just fell asleep on the damn uncomfortable couch. Next thing we knew there was a body in the wall and this guy drugging me.”

“Okay, kids,” the Sheriff said, breaking Derek from his train of thoughts. He cleared his throat before he continued, “We have a body, male in his forties, probably of the were kind. Killed with a bladed weapon coated with wolfsbane.”

The lack of surprise or horror on their faces was saddening. They were getting used to it.

“First thing, I will need one of you to check on his exact species,” Scott nodded, already planning ahead, “second, and this is why we need to start this investigation first thing tomorrow, I have reasons to believe that this will not be a single incident.”

They frowned, ready to ask what lead him to make this assumption and to make their own.

“And lastly,” John went on before they could interrupt him, “before you ask, I know this is not a hunter, and it's also how I know the body count will rise in the next days,” he took a deep breath, heart pounding. It was harder than anticipated, to keep his emotions in check, “because I know who the killer is, and I know what he's after.”

 

Stiles finished his explanation, having taken over after his dad. The silence was deafening once he was done. They could tell pieces were missing from the bigger picture, more than half the story left untold, but they got the basics. They  _ knew _ now, and they were horrified. The Sheriff was rubbing at his forehead.

They wanted to make Stiles look less defeated, less like he expected everyone to just leave and let him to deal with this alone -like he thought he was supposed to, Scott realized- and to take this tiredness from the Sheriff's face. They didn’t know how. 

“ So what do we do?” Scott asked, less a question than a way to cut through the quiet.

“ You said that you knew he would not stop at one kill,” Derek directed at the Sheriff from where he was standing with his arms crossed, “so do you have any idea as to what direction his killings will take? If we can find his next victims, we can stop him.”

“ The most we can tell for now, by knowing him, is that he'll stick to supernatural creatures,” Stiles declared in an even tone, “one victim isn't really enough to know more about his M.O. if he sticks to one, though, or his progression.”

No one added anything for a second, shocked at Stiles matter of fact tone, before Scott nodded.

“ So we need to find all the weres and others from the area. It's not gonna be easy, seeing as they’re used to hide.”

“ I also have something that could help,” Derek said, walking towards his small desk and reverently taking a small notebook from under a pile of papers, “Laura had the number of a neighboring Pack’s Alpha, Satomi. She could have useful informations. I'll call her now.”

A few surprised noise came from the others because none of them knew anything about a Pack living close to Beacon Hills. It was not like the last years had left much room to start reaching out to others, but it was still painful to realize how unprepared and ignorant they were about this life, their life. Their war, for a big part. They still were kids in a lot of ways, even Derek who barely had time to learn about this kind of business before his family burned. His uncle hadn’t been very sharing either.

“ That's a start,” gratefully replied the Sheriff while Derek went in the bedroom to make the call. “We also need one of you with a good nose and knowledge of the supernatural to go see the body,” he added apologetically.

“ Malia and I will go,” Lydia announced, “she has the best nose and maybe I'll be able to get something.” 

Malia nodded, turning to Lydia to start planning the when and hows.

“ Satomi offers to meet her first thing tomorrow,” Derek said, already making his way back in the room, “she wants to talk to Scott, from Alpha to Alpha,” he explained.

“That was quick,” Kira piped up from the couch.

Scott hummed thoughtfully, “You should come with me,” he suggested to Derek, “since your family was in contact with them. And you know more about all this stuff than me,” he admitted with a small smile. Derek agreed, thinking about how much things changed in his relationship with Scott.

“ Stiles,” Scott continued after a pause, pretending he didn’t notice the frown in his friend’s face, “you should put up your board in the loft, so we keep track of what we know and what we don't.”

It was an obvious attempt at compromising with Stiles, giving him something more or less useful to do until his investigation skills could really be put to use. He gracefully accepted without complaints, a rarity in itself. A worrying one. 

 

Night fell for good, the last shades of red and pink fading from the sky. The Pack did their best to act as normal as possible, shaken to the core but determined to give Stiles a semblance of normalcy for the evening.

So they started to make dinner, nobody wanting to leave the apartment. They would all stay there for the night, even the Sheriff who usually refused invitations to Pack nights on account of “being an old man too tired for all this excitement and noise”.

He probably just wanted a night of greasy and sugary goods.

Scott watched the others move around the kitchen and the living room, never able to stop himself from thinking about the people missing from the picture. Then he turned his head to look out the window and at Stiles, standing on the small balcony staring at the stars slowly lighting up.

He joined him, gasping softly at the hot temperature outside even with the sun down. He mirrored Stiles position, leaning his arms on the warm railing, letting the silence stretch out comfortably as he scratched at the chipping paint under his hand.

“You never told me,” he gently said after a minute. Stiles huffed and smiled, seeming glad that Scott wasn’t beating around the bush. It just wasn’t their way, Scott knowing it would just piss Stiles I’d-rather-know Stilinski off.

Scott wasn’t there at the time his mom died, but he remembered clearly how Stiles hated being treated like he was made of glass, bluntly declaring he didn’t have a mother anymore when Scott timidly asked.

“By the time you came around, it wasn’t relevant anymore,” Stiles replied in a low voice, “or so we thought.” Scott turned around to lean his back on the railing, hands finding the pockets of his shorts. He looked at Stiles watching the city lights.

Stiles sighed and straightened up, gripping the metal with both hands and pushing his torso backward until he was inclined back, throwing his head back to look up at the sky again. Scott had the fleeting thought that Stiles was really beautiful, bathed in the lights coming from the street and the apartment.

“I always knew it would come back to bite me in the ass, to be honest,” he added, pulling himself back upright, “but it was just…distant, you know?” Scott nodded, even if he only half got it. He couldn’t understand the pressure of this threat, how Stiles could ever feel like it wasn’t drowning him. Then, that was probably a defense mechanism.

But he could understand how something painful could fade back. His dad leaving, Allison dying. Still painful, still there, always there, but not as vivid as it used to be.

“I– I stopped waiting for it to happen. That’s usually when things turn bad,” Stiles chuckled sadly, glancing at Scott with a sad smile.

“We’ll fix this,” Scott declared with all the certainty he could muster, but he felt like it wasn’t exactly the right this to say. Like it wasn’t what Stiles needed. “Whatever happens,” he continued, “you don’t give up, okay? You’re my best friend, and I need you, Stiles. You’re my brother.”

Stiles studied Scott, one hand rubbing at his ribs. Then he smirked and Scott knew it had been right, this time.

“Are you quoting me?” he chuckled more sincerely. Scott felt himself blush and smiled back, a bit embarrassed.

“Oh, shut up! It was a good speech and you know it,” he laughed, playfully shoving at Stiles. He could remember all too clearly the smell of gasoline and the feel of it on his skin, the warmth of the flare so close to ignite the liquid drenching him. The desperation embedded in his heart and the raw feeling that it would be better to burn, just before not feeling anything again.

Scott remembered most of all, of that night, Stiles words. Their warmth, so different from the one he was holding in his hand, the love he felt for the boy crying in front of him. Nothing could’ve brought him down from this dangerous edge if not the knowledge that he would be hurting someone else by lighting this fire.

“It’s still true, too,” Scott added, looking down and up again at Stiles. They stood like that for a moment before closing the distance between them. They didn’t hug a lot, not as much as they used to when they were kids. It still was one of the safest place, being in each other’s embrace.

“Okay, I can’t breathe,” Stiles finally choked out from Scott’s shoulder, patting him on the back as they broke the hug.

“Let’s get inside,” Scott smiled. Stiles nodded, glancing through the window to see everything ready for dinner.

“Let’s get inside,” he repeated in a whisper. “I’m still flattered that you quoted me,” he said, louder, already stepping in. Scott smiled again.

They would get through this, he swore to himself, because they deserved peace. 

And to hear Stiles laugh again. 


	2. Day 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the need of the story and because it's largely non-compliant for season 4, Parrish isn't a supernatural creature!  
> For the need of the story, also, try and suspend your disbelief about police procedures xD  
> 

It was one of those nights, Derek mused, when he kept company to Stiles insomnia. Derek didn’t sleep much most nights, usually dozing off for short stretches of time, awaken by the lightest of noises. He was getting better since Stiles stared sharing his bed, sleeping longer, but at the same time the need to protect had him even more tuned to his environment and awake more easily.

He didn’t mind, not really. The quiet hours were used in various ways, but whatever they did of it, it never felt wasted. Not even when they only laid side by side in silence.

This time, after drifting off slightly to Stiles playing with his hand, Derek was jerked back to full consciousness by the sound of summer rain hitting the window: fat, violent drops soon accompanied by thunder.

Maybe he could wait a few more years before buying himself and Stiles a cat. He would never sleep with one of those knocking things around the apartment at night.

The rustle of the sheets and the mattress moving had Derek turning his head to watch Stiles move to face him, clear eyes shining in the dark with the yellow light of the street. Like that, his eyes almost looked to be Beta gold. Derek liked better the amber color revealed when the sun hit just right.

“I’m scared,” he admitted quietly, heart beating slightly faster just from breaking the stillness of the moment. The words seemed as harsh as the pounding rain, but needed just as much.

He was never as honest as when he was with Stiles.

“We’ll stop him,” Stiles whispered back, “I’ll stop him before he gets to any of you. I’m bigger now, stronger. I’m  _ trained _ ,” he insisted like he needed to convince himself more than Derek.

“No,” Derek argued, “I’m not scared that we won’t defeat him, I’m just–” he huffed, “I’m just scared to lose you,” his voice broke on the last word. He swallowed. “I’m terrified that you’ll give yourself up if you think it’s the only way.”

He stopped himself before confessing that he was just as afraid of Stiles winning this battle, if it meant that all that was left of him were pieces that could never be put back together.

Stiles was the best thing happening to him that he allowed himself to have. Erica, Boyd, Isaac, they had been the victims of his hatred of himself and anything good in his life. He had pushed them away and failed to protect them.

And then Stiles had been there, worming his way into Derek’s life until he understood that no pushing back or running away would make Stiles’ feelings, or his attachment to the Pack, disappear. He was in this whether Derek was around to see it or not, so Derek…decided to be there. And started working on being better for Stiles.

Along the way, he understood something fundamental: if he wasn’t better for himself he wouldn’t be better for anyone else.

Erica’s death before he could show her how much improvement he was ready to make for her, for his Betas, had almost annihilated any advancement he had made. The feeling of Boyd’s body and blood on his claws messed him up so much he made Isaac run away.

Stiles had been right in his face just after that, snarling and growling just like a wolf. Before Derek could try to fix his mistake, the Nogitsune happened.

And the only thing so determined to cling to Derek no matter what was almost ripped away from him. He couldn’t allow that a second time. He couldn’t lose anyone else after losing two Packs by his own hand. He didn’t really believe that he deserved a third chance at a family, but he would protect it and fight for it all the same.

Stiles stayed silent for a whole minute, like he was reading every thought in Derek’s eyes, like he was seeing the love there. “I won’t give up,” he declared with finality, “I’m not his anymore.”

Derek’s lips twitched upward, a smile tainted by fear and sadness, but a smile nonetheless. Stiles pulled at his shirt and met him halfway, his own lips a bit dry against Derek’s. It didn’t really matter.

Derek could feel every inch of Stiles’ body against him, the warm air of the night slightly chilled by the rain that was slowing down already, and a line of fire on his skin following Stiles’ touch.

 

 

_ 10♦ They asked me, but I don't remember what happened, not really. I remember the black handle of the pocket knife the days before, not daring to ask where he got it. I remember his words _

_ 17♦ The scar's gone now. I hate everything about this, the deaths, the possession, what that thing left in me even after puking me up (how fucked up was that?), but there's one thing that I'm happy about. The word that he carved into my skin disappeared, crumbled to ash with  _ ~~_ the N _ ~~ _ the fox. I'm not his anymore. _

 

 

Morning came with bright sunlight on the Sheriff’s face and a new body in front of him. The rain had washed away everything from the clouds to any prints or DNA that could’ve been left on the scene.

He heard his deputies talking behind him: it wasn’t hard to link this murder to the one from the day before, and it was scaring them. Last time bodies piled up, it ended up with half the station blowing up. The one time before that, the deputies were found bloody and ripped to shred.

It was a wonder anyone was willing to take up the job, like it was a wonder that the high school hadn’t closed its doors and the city was still full of people. John wouldn’t blame anyone, following this new case, if they decided to resign and move to the other end of the country.

He just hoped that no one would guess the connection with Stiles and him. Last thing he needed was to be removed from a case when he needed to keep a close eye on it.

And he wasn’t far away from having to call in the FBI, it would even appear suspicious if he didn’t, at some point. What a pleasure, having to have McCall all up in his business.

It could be very dangerous for everyone involved with the supernatural aspect of the case, too.

So, no matter how much it hurt, he had to stay professional in front of the gruesome crime scenes, push his own feelings down. They were very good at that, the Stilinskis. It was worrying in a way.

John sighed, bent down to take the card from the hand missing two fingers, shaking it to remove droplets of water from the plastic surface of it and carefully handling it to avoid disturbing any potential fingerprints, waiting for it to dry a bit before bagging it.

He knew there would be none, but still.

This time, the fingers weren’t the only things missing from the victim: the woman’s head was nowhere to be found at the moment. The little blood around her shoulders that hadn’t been absorbed by the soaked earth and replaced by rain wasn’t black. It was the normal dark color of unpoisoned blood.

The claws on her hands, though, proved that she was still some kind of creature. When these kind of cases started lining up, John had been extremely worried as to how to explain the tails and the fangs and the claws.

He had apparently largely underestimated the human tendency to turn a blind eye on unexplainable events. Their species ability to deny things so they could stay sane or appear sane enough to still be part of the community was really impressive in a way. And convenient.

He was still curious as to how each case would be rationalized. He bet on some kind of Guinness Book of Records explanation this time.

Parrish walked closer, the victim’s wallet in hand. John couldn’t be sure if its presence on the woman was a slip up from the murderer or part of the game. The man from the day before was still unidentified.

Malia and Lydia were probably in the morgue already, trying to fix that specific gap in their knowledge.

“Who’s our vic?” John tiredly asked, raising his arm to take a look at the card in his own hand while Parrish was checking the contents of the wallet. It was hard to keep a neutral face when his eyes took in the pink lettering on a black background, skulls and flowers framing the words that said: “2be or not 2be mine” on one side. He turned it around to find a similar setting but different words: “2lose or not 2lose everything.”

He felt sick. He felt like all those years ago finding out what had happened to his little boy. How could Claudia and him have been so blind? “It’s okay, daddy,” Stiles had said, on their way to the hospital, “it’s because he loves me.”

“Jenna Williams,” Parrish’s voice took him out of his memories, “thirty-two, lives on the outskirts of town. Caleb managed to get back some data from her soaked up phone,” he added, pointing to a deputy who had worked in a phones repair shop through high school.

“I already called the latest number, her boyfriend is on his way to the station right now, and apparently there’s, uh, there’s no one else to call.”

The Sheriff nodded. “Okay, we’ll go back together to meet him,” he’d have to find a quiet moment to subtly ask the guy if he knew what his girlfriend was, “just give me a minute to, uh,” he vaguely gestured to his phone. Parrish nodded in what John hoped was believing he would just innocently call Stiles to check up on him.

John walked a few feet away and raised the phone to his ear.

“Derek?” he asked out of habit when a gruff voice answered, knowing it couldn’t be anyone else on the line anyway, “We have another one.”

“Shit,” Derek whispered before talking more clearly, “We have to get everyone together this afternoon. I’ll text them. Do you– Did you tell Stiles yet?”

“Thanks. And no, not yet. I’ll go check on him as soon as I can and tell him then. Text me when you’re done with your meeting,” John rubbed his face with his free hand, knowing Stiles would probably guess about the new murder with Derek’s text, and dreading the phone call that would immediately follow.

He also wasn’t in a rush to show Stiles the new card.

“I’ll call him now,” he added, changing his mind.

“Okay. Thanks,” Derek finished before hanging up.

John made his way back to the car slowly, and something on his face must have shown his internal turmoil because Parrish, looking at him over the roof of the car with a blank look to avoid looking like he was prying, asked if everything was okay.

“Yeah, kid, just some– some Stiles’ business,” and wasn’t that a hard truth, “I have to call him back from the car,” he lied. Everyone knew that Stiles hadn’t been feeling well lately, even if they carefully didn’t mention his short time in Eichen House.

John would feel guilty to use his son’s state to go around any suspicions, making people think that he had to call him twice in five minutes, but he knew that Stiles would approve of it as much as he would hate it.

After all, his kid had become a master at bending the truth to his advantage.

John got in the car, letting Parrish take the driver’s seat as he dialed Stiles’ number. He took a deep breath while waiting for Stiles to pick up. It would be another really long day.

 

Lydia really wasn’t paid enough to be standing in front of a dead body this early in the morning. Or, she wasn’t paid at all, seeing as being a Banshee wasn’t exactly remunerated; so all in all, not enough.

Malia, just a foot behind her, was starting to get agitated, her short patience running out with each new minute spent watching Lydia as she just stared at the cold gray skin in front of them both.

“Could you just– stop?” Lydia frustratingly asked, not turning around. Malia’s huffs in her ear were getting old.

“Sorry. Just, do you think you could do this a little faster?” Malia replied like she couldn’t sense Lydia’s irritation.

The Banshee sighed. “Did you smell anything?” she inquired instead.

“That he’s definitely dead. And that he was a werewolf.”

“Nothing new then,” she concluded, “come on, let’s go. There’s nothing else here.” She made to turn but just before she stopped looking, something caught her eyes. “Did it just–?”

She got closer to the mutilated hand, sure that something moved there. She probably shouldn’t get this close but it was so tiny, barely a feeling from the corner of her– the finger stump jerked up, so suddenly that Lydia jumped back with a yelp.

Malia caught her under the shoulders, worryingly asking what was happening.

But Lydia didn’t answer. Couldn’t really hear Malia’s calls, only focused on the finger that was  _ growing back _ , so wrong but so distant from the logical part of her brain that she couldn’t feel the nausea building up inside of her.

The sound of leaves rustling in the wind seemed to echo all around her. That’s when she realized: it wasn’t anything human or werewolf that was sprouting from what was left of the finger. It was brown and twisted and–

A tree, she thought, everything falling into place in her head as soon as she finally let her supernatural senses take over, as soon as she let go of everything tying her to the human realm. It was terrifying, the feeling of belonging that she had in this state, the feeling of rightness. It whispered to her to never go back, to follow the paths to the forest–

The tree, she focused back, pushing away the feelings that she knew didn’t belong to this world, the tree on the finger, a tiny version of a full tree with a trunk, and branches deploying so delicately. Green leaves uncurling a second before turning gold, before withering, falling.

It was fascinating, beautiful, and so very creepy. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from it.

“–ydia!”

She snapped back into the present, fell back a step and into Malia’s arms. It probably wasn’t the first time the other girl called her name, judging by her worried breaths.

“What was  _ that _ ,” Malia’s trembling voice reminded Lydia that she had never seen her Banshee’s powers in action, “you were out of it for two minutes!” No amount of explaining could ever prepare someone for Lydia’s sudden absence, eyes glazed over, scent changing until it was both stronger and fainter. Lydia herself was never prepared to the shock of falling into this state and getting out of it.

“I– I…I think I know where the next body will be,” Lydia answered shakily, Malia helping her get her balance back.

“Don’t…,” Malia softly protested, tremors running through her hands too, “don’t say body. We’ll stop it from happening. We have to.”

 

Kira was in Derek’s kitchen, cooking some breakfast for everyone for when they came back. She made sure to make enough noise to let Stiles know he wasn’t alone while giving him the space he could need.

Stiles had spent the early hours of the morning -probably since way before Kira was there- pacing and sitting down alternatively. Now he was sitting very still, had been that way since Derek’s call, an hour or so ago.

There was a new body.

She was glad she had decided to come by and wait for the others with Stiles, knowing only having a presence with him went a long way. Even if she never knew the right thing to say, she could be there. That seemed to be enough.

She turned around and put down two plates on the table, deciding they would start breakfast before the others came back, the morning starting to be well on its way to be over. Stiles looked at her from across the table, looking like he was only considering eating to please her and avoid Scott’s worried glances.

In her opinion, as long as he got some food in him, is was as good a reason as any.

Kira pondered on everything she didn’t know about Stiles, aside from the obvious revelation from the day before. Out of everyone in the Pack, she knew Stiles the less: she hung out a lot with Lydia, Malia was often around Scott to train, and she had talked a bit about her Japanese heritage with Derek the night they went to the power station.

But Stiles had been possessed half the time she knew him, then he needed to recover and she only saw him silent and sad at school lunches, and now– It didn’t seem like the best time to start mundane conversation or ask questions.

She knew they had a lot of tastes in common, but from what she knew, they weren’t really on the same wavelength. She was shy and optimistic, and even if he talked less than before -according to Scott- he could be loud and harshly realistic.

She also had a hard time adjusting to his sarcasm, or even Lydia’s sometimes. She just wasn’t used to that kind of disguised brutal honesty, being raised to be kinder than the truth when it was needed, and honest in discreet ways.

But they had this…thing. This Pack bond that wasn’t just a friend-of-my-boyfriend thing. They were slowly learning to know each other better on top of this caring for each other that was naturally there.

It was still weird, being in a Pack. Her mother said that it was because she was a Kitsune, and it was not natural. Even more than that, wolves and foxes weren’t supposed to get along. But Kira was never one for confining herself to the way things were supposed to be.

Both their phones pinged, and they simultaneously read Malia’s text announcing that the girls were done with the morgue and would be over soon. Before one of them could reply, another message followed, from Scott this time, saying the meeting with Satomi just ended and that they would be there soon too.

Kira felt herself relax, and could see Stiles shoulders drop minutely. It was always hard to be so scattered in times of crises, no matter the need to disperse so they could run the investigation on multiple fronts. Knowing they would be reunited in a few minutes was comforting.

Especially for Stiles, Kira supposed, when he was the indirect target of a crazy murderer, when he knew that the best way to hit him was by going after his loved ones.

Fifteen minutes and a stilted conversation about comics later, there was a knock on the door. They all but ran at it, stopping just before opening to share an understanding look and a smile.

This was their relation, not necessarily in words despite both their tendencies to rant when stressed, but in this silent recognition of each other’s feelings. They might not have the same personalities or natures, but they still understood each other.

Stiles opened the door, revealing tense girls that, in the same way as them before, relaxed at the sight of them. Kira studied Lydia’s tired -but makeup and hair artfully done- face and guessed that whether voluntarily or not, she had used her power in the morning. 

  
  


“Did you find anything?” Stiles impatiently asked, but before Malia could answer or rebuke him, the door opened to Derek and Scott closely followed by the Sheriff. Instead of staying in the kitchen which was too small for the whole Pack, they gathered in the living room, breakfast momentarily forgotten.

The Sheriff, after somberly greeting the others, went directly to Stiles. “Can I talk to you for a second before we start on this?”

John wanted to give Stiles the opportunity to see the card without an audience, so he could let out any emotion he would surely try to repress in front of everyone else. Stiles simply nodded before turning to lead the way to the only soundproofed part of the apartment: the bedroom.

It was one of the first thing Derek changed when he moved in his new place, arguing that he liked to sleep without hearing everything his neighbors did -and no one could argue that some things were awkward to hear- but there was a running joke among the Pack about how it really was to keep any sounds  _ in _ .

Stiles closed the door behind them and turned to his dad, crossing his arms on his chest. It was a rare gesture for him, John knew, more of an attempt at comforting himself than being defensive.

“There was another card,” he started.

“Yeah, I figured,” Stiles interrupted, sounding like he wanted to come out as frustrated but only managed to sound done with things. John took no offense in the reply, only slipped the card out from the chest pocket of his jacket, shuddering at the idea of being caught carrying evidence from a crime scene like that. He handed it to his son.

Stiles took in the words and the drawings.

“Clever,” he deadpanned, “to be or not to be, I’m really impressed,” he said in a tone that suggested he was very much not. “So what, the countdown is for my giving up? At zero I’m supposed to take off and go with him?”

“The countdown?” John asked, surprised to hear Stiles talk about that without having seen or heard more about the new body they found in the morning. John had figured as much himself after seeing the two missing fingers, but he was always impressed at Stiles ability to analyze and predict events.

It was worrying too, because his son was only this quick and clever when running on stress and adrenaline, two things that weren’t good for his sleep and for his general recovery from the Nogitsune time. Case in point: the shaking in his fingers that talked of exhaustion and the wrong kind of nerves. John wondered for a second if Stiles was even taking his Adderall anymore.

Stiles sighed, a sad sound, “Yeah, I supposed more fingers were missing, which, the ‘twos’ on the card kinda confirmed?” at his dad’s nod, he continued, “Okay, yeah, let’s– let’s get out and figure out what’s our next move.”

He turned to open the door, but John caught him by the arm.

“Stiles, son,” he started, trying to work the next words in his head before speaking them, “you know this isn’t your fault, right? From beginning to finish, this isn’t on you,” he pressed, knowing all too well how guilt working in this family. He was still half convinced Claudia’s death, the moment she died, alone and with Stiles, was on him. Something he would never forgive himself for.

Stiles, half turned to watch him intently, gave his dad a small smile, but said nothing.

“Kiddo,” John continued more quietly, “you don’t have to believe me right now, but I’ll say this until you do: this is not your fault. This is my and your mother’s mess.”

Stiles looked down at the mention of his mother before nodding once. “I think I’ll believe you, eventually,” he whispered with a croaked voice, “but I have to– to fix this  _ myself _ before I can.”

And with that, he opened the door and walked in the living room. John sighed before following him, understanding what Stiles meant. It echoed his own thoughts, how he wanted to do the hard and dirty work himself so he could try to erase past mistakes, make amends. But he owed his son to let him do this on his own terms. It still made him feeling utterly powerless.

 

 

11♦  _ Ever since it happened, mom and dad keep apologizing. I don't really understand why. I wanted this, didn't I? _

17♦  _ Didn't I? _

 

 

“So we have Satomi’s list,” Lydia concluded, “but she won’t help more than that.”

Derek and Scott nodded, looking disappointed.

“Having that list is already more than we could have hoped for. We can manage from there,” John said, and he meant it. The boys needed to hear it, too, they did their best with the meeting but still felt like they failed.

Satomi had been welcoming, even talked about forming an alliance in the future. But she was pretty adamant that she wouldn’t directly involve her own in a fight that wasn’t theirs, and no one could blame her for that. She had to protect her Betas.

She had been willing to offer them a list of all the supernatural being in the area, though, and she knew quite a number of them. It was impressive to realize that they weren’t as alone as they felt in this strange side world.

Judging by the list, aside from the two werewolves Pack, some other creatures lived in families but most of them were on their own, probably living like humans in the sense that children didn’t necessarily stayed closed to the parents.

Sadly, a high number of those were probably orphans, hunters sparing no one.

So, Satomi announced that she would take her Pack away for a while, a transparent way to show them that she was leaving them to sort their own problem.

“Plus,” Stiles added, “we have more data with the new murder, we can start to try and get ahead of the next one.”

“Two points of reference isn’t really a good basis for extrapolation,” Lydia objected, trying to kindly say that whatever they could try to do would most likely prove useless. They just needed more information to understand the murderer’s modus operendi, and for that they would need…more victims. Which was precisely what they were trying to avoid.

“Maybe not in any normal circumstances, but I know how his mind works,” Stiles countered, his desperate tone showing how much he needed to convince himself of that. “It’s the only thing we can do anyway,” he added, subdued, “even if we end up being wrong, it’s our only option. There’s too many people on the list, we can’t keep them all safe tonight!”

“Okay, so what do you propose?” Scott asked, wanting to show Stiles that he was with him. That they were all with him.

Stiles leaned slightly on Derek, sitting next to him, before answering. “I know he will go for something simple, something obvious. He wants me to figure it out and still be helpless to stop him.”

Everyone averted their eyes at this, like they were afraid to shatter Stiles with their looking. If was half embarrassment at this implication of what Stiles went through in the past without any of them ever suspecting it, and half realization of what was to come.

“So, what will it be? Age, species, gender? Color of the eyes?” Kira broke the silence, not trying to make it sound difficult but she inadvertently reminded all of them how many elements there were to take into consideration. It could literally be anything, especially since this was a game that was designed for them to lose.

They had no idea what the rules were.

“Nothing as complicated as eye color or anything like that,” Stiles hummed in thoughts, “We have to see what we have for the both of them.”

He got up and walked to the board where he had already written about the first victim.

“Test results came in this morning,” the Sheriff said, “dental record gave us an ID. Trevor Lewis, forty-four.” He didn’t have the case files on him, deciding that sneaking the card out of the station was enough risk for one day if he didn't want to be taken off the case.

Stiles wrote down the name and age over the man’s gender and species, which were approximately all they had on the guy. Then he added next to him “Jenna Williams” and the corresponding elements.

“Doesn’t give us much,” Lydia piped up, determined to play the role of the pragmatic voice. She didn’t care how it made her sound, knowing that they were all aware that she had good reasons to do it: the Pack had a dangerous tendency to move too fast and reach conclusions too soon -often leading to them being wrong.

“But I’m sure he wouldn’t choose his victims randomly. He has something to prove. Is there anything on Satomi’s list?” Stiles looked at Derek and Scott who had the paper in front of them on the coffee table.

“Lewis isn’t on here, so he’s most likely an Omega from a different town,” Derek indicated, pausing to let Stiles write it down under the rest, “I don’t really understand why he didn’t start directly with someone from the area,” he couldn’t help but add before looking for the woman’s name on the list.

“Well, we have the list, right?” Lydia said, “but how would he find the other creatures?” she rhetorically asked, refraining from continuing with asking how he even  _ knew _ about the supernatural in the first place. No one could answer that question but the killer himself.

“He partnered up,” the Sheriff reached the same conclusion as Lydia, “used him to detect his next victims. Even hunters can’t always tell who’s part of the supernatural, or there would be no one left already. He would’ve needed someone with a good nose to point his targets to him, someone that wouldn’t be missed when this particular job was done.”

There was a pause, the words sinking in. Then Stiles asked, “And the other one?”

“According to Satomi’s list, she was a wendigo,” Scott said, “but it doesn’t give us any personal info. Maybe that’s where we need to look to find the M.O.”

“But we don’t have that kind of time, if he’s going after someone tonight. Not if we have to find and protect anyone we think might be next.”

“I can help by narrowing down the area we’ll be searching,” Lydia declared, and everyone turned to her. They had almost forgotten about her visit to the morgue. “I felt something that tells me the next body, so the next murder, will be in the woods.”

Stiles looked at her with such trust that she straightened up, chasing away the lingering doubt she had in her powers since the night Stiles went sleepwalking into the Preserve.

She remembered when she went talking to Stiles, a few days after Allison’s funeral, when he was still fully living with his dad. She was a mess, he was a mess. It was one of those time when they couldn’t bare being seen by anyone else but each other, not wanting to burden Scott.

Stiles had opened his bedroom door for her, stumbling a bit with a half empty bottle of Whiskey in hand. He took one big gulp straight from it before looking at her and asking, “How can you look at me and not see him?”

And she had decided to be honest, to stop walking on eggshells around him like they were around her and Scott, because she knew none of them could really stand it but none of them dared saying it either.

“I do. I do see him.” And it had been the truth, it still was, some days. But she was determined not to let that destroy her relation with Stiles; not to let the Nogitsune win this game against her. She pushed and pulled and looked at Stiles until that was exactly what she saw. Stiles.

That same night, they had talked about the sleepwalking. And after Lydia’s retelling of the events, he had taken her hand and said, “You weren’t wrong. Not entirely. I was there, you know, in my dream. I was in Eichen House’s basement.”

Since then, Lydia never doubted her senses, but knew she had to look into her visions and predictions more instead of going with the first impression.

This one was pretty straightforward, though, she had  _ felt _ the Preserve around her. The death to come, there.

“We need to list all the people living close, he wouldn’t risk taking someone too far from his murder ground,” Stiles said. “And then we need to start thinking about possible criteria for choosing the victims.” And after that they could only hope it would work.

“What’s the deal with the missing fingers?” Malia bluntly asked, watching Stiles write it down on the board. Everyone stared at the words.

“It’s a countdown…,” Stiles hesitated, pausing for a long time.

“Will he stop at five?” Kira asked when Stiles didn’t continue, “And what will happen when he reaches that number?” She looked around, seeing her question reflected on the other’s faces.

“Five– uh, five to show me I can’t stop him,” Stiles answered, not looking at anyone in the room, “then a choice to come with him.” The weres could smell the guilt already clinging to Stiles’ scent intensify.

“And when you refuse?” Derek prompted, deliberately not using “if” because there was no way he was letting Stiles being guilted into giving himself up. He watched Stiles and John exchange a quick glance. Watched Stiles nervously rubbing his ribs.

“He’ll start the second countdown, the second hand. And there’s five of you.”

 

“This one too, the last,” Scott said while conscientiously chewing his sandwich bite, pointing at a name on the list in front of him. Lydia leaned to see the computer screen on which Scott was using some software Danny had been very kind to leave them before taking off to Hawaii.

“David Johnson,” Lydia read out loud for Kira to put down on the board, where four names had been added in the last three hours. “According to the list he’s an Amphiptere.”

“How do you…,” Kira frowned at the board, “spell that?” she grimaced.

“It’s a European dragon,” Lydia continued after Scott helped Kira, “usually looks like a big snake with wings so I’m guessing this David has, one, European origins and two, the ability to transform like werewolves.”

“Or could be McDaniels’ cousin,” Stiles chuckled, walking back into the room after the nap everyone forced him to have. It was likely that he hadn’t really slept, just laid there with Derek to act as comfort pillow and to make sure he actually tried to at least rest a bit. His interruption earned him mostly blank looks.

“Running for Mayor this year?” Kira laughed, directing the perplexed expression to her. She high fived Stiles without more explanation when he walked past her before falling into the couch next to Lydia.

“So,” Scott drawled out to get back on tracks, “that gives us five potential victims for tonight, working only on addresses.”

Derek walked in, carrying a tray with drinks on it. “We need to narrow it down. Did you find anything on…McDaniels’ age, job, anything?”

“Working on it,” Scott pointed to the screen where a page was loading. The software itself wasn’t slow, it was the computer that was starting to get a bit old. It had been hard for everyone to keep their calm when the thing crash dumped, so the Sheriff went back home quickly to fetch Stiles’ newest computer that he left at home last time he was there.

Malia was…somewhere around. Probably.

“Okay,” Scott announced, “twenty-nine, currently working in construction, got married last year,” Kira wrote it down in the same order as the other ones.

They had talked about what could be relevant informations, but it was hard to choose. They couldn’t try and protect five people at once, though, so they needed to cut it down to at least three.

“Coroner says that the victims are killed around midnight, so that’s our window,” Scott repeated the Sheriff’s earlier words, “we need a plan B in case we got it wrong.”

“Maybe…,” Stiles hesitated, clearly still focused on the board, “maybe he’s alternating between male and female victims?”

“Or it could be a coincidence, or the pattern could be one-two-one,” Lydia argued half-heartedly. It was hard to keep up the devil’s advocate’s role at this point, they needed to come up with something and stick to it.

“That would make it three potential targets, and we could pair up and cover each of them,” Scott said, opening his mouth to start planning on the pairing.

“I’m coming too,” Stiles interrupted him. “So either make that two pairs and a group of three, or three pairs and someone to keep an eye on the Preserve.”

“I can do that,” Malia stated from the front door. Scott’s face scrunched up in a mix of concern and disagreement.

“Stiles and I will keep an eye on one of these men together,” Derek declared before Scott could say something, locking eyes with the Alpha to plead with him to have this conversation privately later. To trust him.

“I’ll get with Kira, and the Sheriff with Lydia,” Scott slowly said, narrowing his eyes at Derek to signify that the conversation was definitely  _ not _ over. “We’ll stay in constant communication and if by midnight nothing happened or Malia’s got something, we all meet at the southern trail,” he pointed at the map next to the computer.

Having Malia in the woods was mostly futile, they knew it: the Preserve was gigantic, even for someone who lived in it for eight years and knew it by heart. But they counted on luck. On the off-chance that Malia would sense something and could follow a trail none of the others could.

It wasn’t much, but it seemed to be the master word at this stage of things. They tried not to let that bring them down too much, even as aware as they were of their actual chances at stopping the next murder.

“Okay,” Scott announced, getting up and gathering the dirty plates to clean up a little, “we should head home to get as much rest as we can before tonight.” He came back from the kitchen with a small smile that he hoped was encouraging.

“Let’s go,” Kira agreed. Stiles and Derek joined all of them at the front door to say goodbye, feeling silly to do so when they were going to see each other in a few hours. But it felt right. Good.

“See you tonight,” Malia turned back to wave before the door closed on her.

Silence lingered for a few minutes, Stiles and Derek going back on the couch to stare at the board. Derek felt the heaviness of the paradoxically slim odds of succeeding bear down on him.

They both jumped two feet in the air when the bell rang.

And behind the door was the Sheriff, with a computer bag and what looked like three different laptop chargers in his hands, cables trailing behind him. “I didn’t know which one was the right one,” he said with a shrug.

  
  


Stiles was sitting in the passenger seat of the Camaro, sun going down over the horizon, and Derek could tell that the silence was starting to get on his nerves. 

It was good in a way, the jittering, the bouncing of his leg: it meant that he was slowly allowing his body to move again, instead of being so still. Stiles always retreated his thoughts and pain inside, but since the Nogitsune he didn’t even let his body externalize those like he used to.

“Did you know that cows have best friends?” Stiles blurted out, immediately sighing like he found himself idiotic for saying that out loud. Derek huffed out a laugh.

“Really?” he humored him, still looking out the window at Johnson’s lit house but tilting his head to show Stiles he was paying attention.

“It’s stupid,” Stiles answered, “I just needed to say something.”

“Okay…,” Derek hesitated, “what about the dragon thing?”

“What the Night Vale–”

“What do you know about Amphiteres?” Derek finished before realizing Stiles had talked. “Night Vale?”

“There’s not much on them?” Stiles hesitated, then looked at Derek and changed directions before he could continue with what he knew of the new species. “Yeah, Night Vale, you know what it is, right?”

“Stiles, you made me start listening to it literally only five months ago,” Derek chuckled, “why are you mentioning it is my question.”

“Oh!” Stiles nodded, “Yeah, true, um, I made a reference earlier and Kira got it,” he smiled, and Derek watched him fondly. He hoped tonight wouldn’t erase that expression from Stiles’ face.

“Amphiteres, though,” Stiles continued, “I did some research, all I have is that they’re said to have no arms or legs, just wings. In their dragon from, I mean, I don’t know about the human part, I mean it’s not even mentioned that they can turn human and it’s not like Wikipedia is much help on the supernatural.”

Stiles stopped, and Derek could imagine that he was already three thoughts away -probably coming up with websites ideas for the supernatural world. It made him frown, wondering how much of the constant moving and the jumping from one idea to another was Stiles healing, and how much was him forgetting to take his Adderall.

Or maybe it was just nerves, considering what they were trying to do at the moment.

Either way, Derek resolved to try and have this conversation later. “So, we’re guessing two shifts minimum?” he prompted Stiles again, wanting to know more about what he had found. Stiles turned his head with a questioning hum.

“Yeah, sorry, I guess three shifts might be the norm for shapeshifters: human, partial and complete? Anyway, these guys are usually green-ish, have some feathers. They come from Europe originally, you can find them on some medieval armories,”

Derek nodded, half listening to Stiles analysis on dragon’s imagery found all over the world while he looked at the time in worry. It was well past eleven now, and so far it was quiet on all fronts.

“I don’t– I’m not sure anything’s gonna happen now,” Stiles cut himself in the middle of his rant, and Derek focused totally back on him, “I mean, the killing happens around midnight, but there’s the whole grabbing the victims that has to happen first. Taking them to the Preserve would take time, even this close to it,” he gestured vaguely at the tree front on their left.

“So what do you say?” Derek asked, “We call Malia, start with the woods?”

Stiles didn’t answer for a minute, appearing deep in thought. Derek felt uneasy at the idea of leaving their spot in case they had been right and one of those guys would end up dead because they thought the woods were a better bet. But, as he watched the clock, he felt even worse at the idea that someone was currently being killed because they stayed right where they were.

Their idea had been a very long shot anyway. Stiles had speculated that maybe there was an age factor too in the kills, but everyone had been able to hear it as a last desperate attempt at making sense of all this.

They were running out of time.

“Maybe we could leave the houses team by team, starting with the furthest away from the Preserve?” Stiles proposed, “But I have a feeling that these three guys are safe for tonight. Maybe Kira was right and the victim’s eye colors will make a rainbow or something as stupid as that,” his tone was more somber than his words intended to be.

“Seems a bit far-fetched,” Derek replied, “but I get what you’re saying. It could be anything less obvious than gender or age. I’m texting Scott,” he got his phone out and started typing as he formulated a plan based on his knowledge of the Preserve.

“They’ll start, head north from the southern trail, then us and we’ll go north-east, and finally Lydia and your dad will go north-west. Malia is…,” he scrolled back up the group text to see her last message “She’ll turn around and meet with Lydia.” He sent the text.

He didn’t look at any replies, though he could hear his phone chime in Stiles’ hand, see the faint light of the screen light up the interior of the car as he counted the minutes, still watching Johnson’s house just in case.

Ten minutes later, he started the car and drove off. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable per say, the rumble of the car’s engine filling up the spaces between Stiles’ heartbeat to calm him down a fraction. But he could tell that Stiles was riling himself up.

He put his hand on Stiles’ shaking knee, rubbed his thumb back and forth there, hoping to soothe him a little. The anxiety permeating the air was overwhelming, but Derek was used to it, to help Stiles with it. He started breathing louder so Stiles would copy him instinctively.

“Whatever happens…,” Derek trailed of. He didn’t really know how to finish that sentence to convey all he wanted Stiles to know. But it didn’t matter, because he knew Stiles would understand. The real problem was Stiles believing it.

Scott froze suddenly, Kira at his left and Stiles and Derek in earshot somewhere east. The forest was quiet. Too quiet. Something–

A blood curling scream echoed through the trees, coming from Scott’s right, half a mile ahead of them.

Next thing he knew, they were all running towards the sound, Stiles and Derek converging on them right on time to see two shadows struggling in the dark. The moon was giving enough light to see decently, even filtered through the branches and the leaves, but Scott still used his werewolf night vision to try and see more clearly what was happening.

The attacker had his back on him, a beanie covering his hair, and he didn’t even look behind when they clearly made enough noise that he would be alerted of their presence. He barely turned his head like he was acknowledging their approaching steps.

He opened his arms, a heavy but dulled thump making them know he had dropped the person he was holding in front of him to the ground.

Then he started running away, sheathing something looking suspiciously like a sword.

Scott gagged for a second, steps faltering at the heavy scent of blood and something else, something so disturbing that he reeled away. He saw Derek do the same a few feet from him.

Kira dropped down next to the victim, their ragged breaths echoing to let them know that they were still alive. Scott knew, already, that there would be no saving them. Watching the retreating back of the attacker, an arm raised to protect his nose and his eyes from whatever was making him so dizzy, Scott understood that they didn’t make it in time: the killer wasn’t running away; he had done exactly what he intended to do.

Before Scott could try and shake the lightheadedness to run after him, a deafening bang right next to him made him flinch away, raising his other hand to protect his head. He quickly understood that the shot wasn’t aimed at him, and despite de ringing in his ears he turned to Stiles and ran to him.

Scott put his hand on the hot barrel of the gun. “Stiles,” he said, worried and almost scared of the dark look on his friend’s face, the focus that he had on the woods ahead of him even as nothing could be seen there anymore.

“I  _ missed _ , I only grazed him on the arm,” Stiles snarled, and Scott had to make a conscious effort not to remove his hand from Stiles’ still raised one. He didn’t know if Stiles was angrier at the fact that they failed, or that he hadn’t been able to shoot their enemy.

Because Scott knew for a fact that Stiles never missed his targets.

He still remembered the afternoons spent watching his and Allison’s friendly competitions. The memory hurt like a burning knife in his heart, so he focused back on the present.

“It’s okay, Stiles, it’s okay,” he tried to soothe him, taking the gun from his hand when it started shaking.

“I missed,” Stiles repeated, voice breaking on the words. Scott took a step to the side so he could block Stiles’ view of the person Kira was trying to save while Derek was dialing 911. It was useless. Help would never get there in time.

 

 

12♦ _ Dad took me to the gun range today. Mom...mom would've hated it but...mom's not here anymore. _

16♦ _ Scott has been a werewolf for some time now, and I feel powerless. I could be more than the defenseless human, fragile skin and bones. _

_ But I saw the damage bullets could do, and I swore to myself a long time ago that I would never hurt someone like that. _

_ I can use words to pierce people’s heart. I don’t know if it’s better. I hate myself for it anyway, because I know they hurt just as much. I know. _


	3. Day 3 Pt.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I repeat: the author knows nothing about police procedures and stuff, she doesn't even watch cop shows  
> Thanks to everyone who commented, seriously, I love you <3

Scott had hoped that Stiles would stay right where he was, but he looked over Scott’s shoulder, his face seeming to contort in anger for a second before opting for raw sadness.

“Stiles,” Scott said, trying to get in his way when Stiles started walking, putting a hand on his chest; but Stiles sidestepped and Scott could only follow.

Kira was quietly crying, still pushing with her hand and her sweater against the wound on the woman’s abdomen to stop the heavy bleeding, but it wasn’t working much, everything soaked in red.

He went to Kira’s side, kneeling in front of the woman on the ground and taking her hand to try and draw out some pain. There wasn’t much to take; it was almost over. Her chest was jerking at the rhythm of her choking, eyes wide open but unseeing. Scott pushed away memories of Allison.

He glanced up when Derek moved to be next to Stiles, unclasping one of Stiles’ fists to join their hands. Scott knew that if Stiles wasn’t always biting his nails, he would have bled from clenching his fingers that hard. Even with Derek close to him, his shoulders stayed tensed.

Scott looked back down at the woman, her deep red blood. She wasn’t a werewolf. His eyes fell on her hand and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the mutilation, three fingers missing. Then she went completely still. He felt tears drip down his cheek, turned to look at her face half covered in blood. She was silent. Too silent.

“We were wrong, then,” Stiles said in a clinical tone that contradicted his body language, “she wasn’t even in our list.”  His voice broke on the last word; he took a step back and inhaled sharply. If Derek hadn’t been there, he would’ve collapsed to the ground when his knees went weak.

Instead, Derek caught him under the shoulders and lowered them both to sit down.

It didn’t take long for Lydia, Malia and the Sheriff to find them after Scott howled, closely followed by EMT’s and deputies called by Stiles’ dad. Scott noticed the way John looked ready to shatter when he took in the scene; he also saw how quickly the Sheriff put himself back together. They all forgot how this would be painful for him too.

The night promised to be long, Scott mused, looking around at the woods lightened up by the flashlights. He was pushed back from the body, gently taking Kira’s wrist in his hands to pull her away.

There would be a lot to answer to, they would have to explain how they all found themselves witnessing a crime; for now, they were wrapped in shock blankets and Malia was out of sight, discreetly trying to find something no human could. No one but her could, really.

She went back a few minutes later, avoiding officials with ease until she was next to the Sheriff and Stiles, the others approaching to complete the circle. Her nose was wrinkled but she looked undisturbed by what happened, by the dead woman being bagged a few feet from them.

She presented something to the Sheriff. It took a second for Scott to understand what it was.

The third card.

 

“Okay, how are you feeling?” Melissa asked, crouched in front of both Kira and Stiles. They both nodded without a word. It was only minutes before when Melissa had found Kira in the bathroom, scraping her hands raw to get rid of the blood on them.

Melissa knew firsthand how hard it was to have a life literally slip between your fingers.

She got up to sit next to Kira, taking a second to wish she wasn’t exactly aware of what her kids got themselves into this time. She couldn’t help but think ignorance is bliss, sometimes. She flinched at her own thoughts, though, because it was unfair to think of this as Stiles getting himself into something.

He had his tendencies to chase up after dangerous stuff all his life, yes, but this? This, it was…something Melissa didn’t have a word for.

“Malia found this,” John said, turning to his son sitting next to him. He gave Stiles a small card that Melissa recognized as what Scott told her was found on the crime scenes. Was it only two days ago? Barely. She regretted having to work that much, not being able to be there for the Stilinskis.

John had looked apologetically at her when they all barged in at three in the morning, after everyone got cleared off the scene. It was supposed to be her night off, but they really had nothing to be sorry for: Stiles was like a son to her and John– was a very dear friend.

Melissa watched Stiles take the card between loose fingers, looking already tired of what he’ll see on it. And sure enough, he sighed and let it drop to the ground after reading both sides of it, rubbing his hands on his face.

Melissa let go of Kira’s hands that she was warming between hers to it pick it up, quickly reading it herself before putting it down on the coffee table, still scared to appear nosy despite her own attachment to her son’s Pack.

“Call me” one side of the card said, a tiny manga figure drawn next to the word, winking and holding up two fingers to its ear to imitate a phone. On the other side was just a phone number.

She felt a little sick, thinking about who had made this. Her first instinct as a parent would be to blame the Sheriff for what had happened in the past, a way to reassure herself that she would never have let anything like that happen herself.

But Melissa worked at a hospital. She saw a lot of things, from heartwarming to horrifying. She knew of fake smiles and hand shaped bruises, secrets hidden under clothes and secrets that left no physical evidences.

And, really, she had been blind too, when her son became a werewolf and almost died.

“Did you get anything from the woods?” Scott asked Malia.

“A weird scent,” she replied, grimacing. Stiles tensed up before she added, “like a mix of plants, and that weird powder that Deaton has.”

“Mountain ash?” Derek asked, eyes wide in surprise. “You shouldn’t be able to smell that,” he finished, appraising Malia with an impressed look.

“Good nose,” she shrugged, “but it’s more than if he was carrying it on him. It’s like he bathed in the stuff.”

“Theoretically,” Stiles barged in, “mixes of mountain ash and plants used to repel or poison supernatural creatures can help stay undetected and mostly untouchable. We meant to try it with Deaton but never found the time.”

“Speaking of,” Lydia directed to Scott, “do you know where Deaton is? Because I looked at the list and the latest victim was a witch, and Deaton’s a druid so he could be the next target for all we know.”

She was so matter of fact about it that Melissa couldn’t help but admire the girl, able to be cold headed when the situation needed her to be. Malia was the same way but for very different reasons.

“Yeah, I called him but he’s been out of town in the last month, he’s not due back until two weeks so I told him we would keep him in the loop. There’s not much he can do right now, so…,” Scott shrugged.

 “No research to be done that he can help with,” Stiles muttered, “wouldn’t mater anyway, since we’re losing.”

“Kid–” John started, putting a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. His son leaned away and sighed.

“I know,” he said, tone bitter, “It’s just– we had _nothing_ and we were still wrong! And he did it on purpose, he knew what conclusions we would try to make with what we had, and then he rubbed our mistake in our faces!”

A heavy silence fell on the room. There was nothing to say to that, not when they were all feeling down after the night they had. If they couldn’t find hope in themselves, they certainly couldn’t find anything to make Stiles feel better. They shared looks, no more than glances before looking away, hating seeing their defeat reflected on each other’s faces.

“But he still has to have a pattern,” John said, “even if he doesn’t realize it himself, he doesn’t chose his victims randomly. You know him, Stiles, you know he wouldn’t. He likes to think of himself as the smartest in the room, and these guys always have a plan.”

Stiles looked ready to argued but stayed silent, and Melissa was reminded once again that Stiles had an intimate knowledge of the killer. It sent a shudder down her spine, and she gripped Kira’s hands tighter. The girl seemed to have retreated into her own mind, but was still listening judging by the way she turned her hands to clasp her own fingers around Melissa’s.

They all looked at Stiles expectantly. They wouldn’t give up if he did, but it would still help if he looked more determined. Melissa realized how unfair it seemed, but it couldn’t be helped. Supernatural creatures and adults and fighters, they were still very much human.

Stiles took a deep, shaky breath. Straightened.

“Then we have to look deeper into the files,” he declared, fire back in his eyes. Everyone just let out a sigh of relief.

 

Lydia couldn’t feel anything. Or, no, that wasn’t exactly right. She felt something, but something so big that she couldn’t quite comprehend, grasp. It was filling her, and it was numbing her. Not in an emotional way, although the night had been exhausting and disturbing enough, but in a Banshee way.

She hadn’t screamed. She had been close when the women had died, running through the woods with the Sheriff, but she hadn’t felt it.

She didn’t understand, because she had been at the morgue less than twenty-four hours before, and she had _seen_ something, got a sense of a death to come. But it was gone now, taken over by something that acted like a screen preventing her from seeing anything else while being so gigantic that she couldn’t see the big picture.

She hated it. She felt utterly useless like this, gone back to the time when she didn’t even have the tenuous control over her powers that she had acquired. Back to not being part of the Pack, kept away from it by well-meaning friends that, ultimately, had done more harm than good by doing it.

The thought made her long for Allison. What she wouldn’t give to have her next to him.

Lydia sighed from the armchair, looking at the others. The exhaustion had caught up to them, even Stiles, and they were curled up together in pairs, sleeping, Malia squeezed in the middle. Melissa and John were in the kitchen, talking quietly.

There wasn’t any use to staying awake now, but Lydia had caught a quick nap in the car, earlier. The files were at the station and the Sheriff, after a heated discussion, had called Parrish to ask him to sneak them out and bring them to the McCall house.

The Sheriff had argued that he could make up an excuse for being absent all day, although that would already seem weird, but he couldn’t well do that _and_ walk into the station just to snatch the files and get out like it was absolutely normal. John trusted the kid, his own words. And they could certainly use a fresh eye on this.

It would be another couple of hours before Parrish got here though.

Lydia extended her arm and picked up the card from the armrest of the couch, where Kira had left it after checking it. She wondered what Stiles would do about it. He hadn’t destroyed it, but he hadn’t given any indication that he would try the number printed on it either.

It wouldn’t help with the killings anyway, they needed to find something as quick as possible; Lydia resisted the urge to shake everyone awake: they needed to rest too.

Maybe she would have to try her powers by going to the morgue again, not that the prospect appealed to her. She just needed to do something.

Lydia still blamed herself, no matter how irrational it was, for not being able to stop Allison’s death. For all her predictions and warning, she couldn’t do a damn thing, and it was frustrating to no end. But it wasn’t only that that gave her this itch under her skin to get up and _act_.

It wasn’t only guilt and a deep urge to go beyond her Banshee’s nature, it was…

She thought that she had met him before, the killer. A long time ago, long before werewolves and mind controlled boyfriends and Peter Hale biting her; before she even became popular at school, when she was still the new kid.

She remembered a fortuitous meeting, and hate on his unfamiliar face, cutting words; how it had laid the foundations of her relationship -or lack of- with Stiles.

She had been so young, and it terrified her when she thought that Stiles had been the same age; when she thought that he had to deal with _this_ intimately. He didn’t talk about it, he hadn’t in the last two days, aside from talking about the case itself, but sometimes Lydia caught Stiles looking at her in a strange way, and every time he did she was more sure of herself.

That day she still remembered with unease had something to do with everything. The day she unknowingly met the killer, the future was put into motion.

Lydia was scared. She was scared that, just like Allison, Stiles would disappear. And it didn’t matter that her responsibility in all this was indirect, that it had happened many years ago, it would still be her fault.

Lydia Martin, Banshee, screaming for the death of innocents. Killer of her friends. Screaming for them.

 

 

11♦ _They keep asking me what he did to me, if he ever touched me before. Before he cut into my skin with a knife. But the thing is, that's why the parents never suspected a thing: right until that day, the hits were never physical._

16♦ _I still don't know what hurts more, even when I look at the scar on my ribs. The people that keep insulting me, rejecting me, ignoring me, or the ones that hit me and bruise me. I can't help thinking that, at least back then, I only had one kind of pain in my life: he never let anyone hurt me but him._

 

 

Early in the morning, Parrish knocked at the door and wasn’t particularly surprised when it was opened by a disheveled looking Sheriff.

He had agreed out of respect and trust for his boss to get the files from the latest investigation out of the station. But walking into the house, seeing a bunch of teenagers looking at him expectantly, he very much intended to get answers.

Stiles got up, looking worse than the others, and approached Parrish and his dad but said nothing, waiting patiently. The deputy didn’t have as much experience with the teen than the older officers that were still working at the station -still alive, more like- but he knew that patience was never his strong point.

“I got the files, sir,” Parrish said at the Sheriff, holding out the small pile in his hand. John took them gratefully.

“You deserve some explanation,” he tiredly said, taking the files and handing them to Stiles. He put a hand on his deputy’s shoulder and took him to the kitchen so they could have a talk with Melissa present.

Malia watched them go and turned her attention back to her friends once she was sure the new guy wasn’t a threat. Derek followed them, probably to act as proof.

Lydia, Scott and Stiles all surrounded the small table in the living room, spreading the three files but making sure they wouldn’t mix them up. Kira stayed back, knowing that there was enough person to read through the files. Instead, she took a pen and paper and got ready to write down everything of importance.

Malia felt a little like an intruder, a feeling she knew wasn’t how the Pack saw her, but she wasn’t sure it would ever go away. She would probably never completely belong with humans. But she was learning.

And more than that, she was willing to learn for her friends. She had found people willing to help without even knowing her -even if she still resented them a bit for making her need help in the first place, but she knew their hearts had been in the right place.

Even if she hadn’t really talked to Stiles since their shared time in Eichen House, she still felt a strong connection to him; after all, they had been together in this hellhole that called itself a psychiatric institute, investigated, and most of all she had talked to him about her past. He had been the first person she had trusted enough to talk to.

And she still felt a little responsible for the Nogitsune taking him over again. And the fact that it had manipulated Stiles’ memories to make him think he had cheated on Derek. She didn’t really understand, though, the guilt. It was foreign and familiar at the same time, drowning her when she thought of her mom and sister and the car crash, but–

When it came to what happened at Eichen, she knew it hadn’t been her fault. Not really. It was one of these pieces of humanity that clang to her but had lost meaning in the years she had spent running the woods as a coyote.

“I smelled it before,” she blurted out after a while, surprising herself because the realization hit her so fast that the words had been out before she really got the implications. All heads turned to her.

“What?” Derek walked back in, and she stared at him for a second too much before remembering that it made humans feel uncomfortable. Derek had told her he wasn’t really bothered by it, but if she wanted to learn she needed to practice.

The Sheriff and Parrish came back into the room, then, but she paid them no mind.

“The…,” she hesitated, “the scent. The mountain ash and wolfsbane and stuff,” she wrinkled her nose at the memory of the foul smell and the way she had wanted to run away from it. “But not exactly the same, last night there was something else that repelled you,” she thought about how it had been unpleasant to her but didn’t stop her like it did with Derek and Scott.

Scott nodded, thinking back on it. “We would have noticed it before if someone had been in town smelling like that, not that we caught the smell itself but the way it kept us from going after him.”

“Where?” Stiles interrupted, suspicion flashing on his face. He looked like he both wanted to know and really didn’t; something Malia could relate to.

“The school,” she said before tilting her head in thoughts. She knew she had smelled it elsewhere too. “Maybe the woods, but that’s hard to tell, and–” she paused, not sure how Stiles would react to this. But she couldn’t really keep it quiet, could she? “Around our houses, I think.”

They were all frozen in place when she looked back.

Stiles got up just when everyone turned to him, slipping between Derek and the Sheriff extended hands. The mix of fear and rage that he exuded made Malia take a step back. There was something dangerous on his face, something disturbing in his silence when everyone tried talking at the same time.

He took the card from where Lydia left it before, flipping it between his fingers.

“This fucking–” he seethed, tilting his head with a sneer, “he wants me to call him? I’m going to call him, alright.”

 

Scott was terrified. “Stiles, think about it for a second, don’t–” he started, powerless as he watched Stiles start to dial up the number. The expression of pure rage on his face was all his, nothing like the cold and calculating anger of the Nogitsune.

Scott rarely saw it on Stiles, but whenever he did he couldn’t help the flare of fear in him. He was scared of his best friend.

It hadn’t happened in years. One of the last time had been on Scott’s behalf, and he had witnessed it from the ground, holding a hand to his bleeding nose before rushing to his feet to get Stiles off the kid that had been bullying him.

Not even being thrown into the supernatural world had awaken that part of Stiles, but now…now it was back.

“He thinks he can spy on us, huh?” Stiles gritted out through clenched teeth, but before he could push the last button Derek caught his arm. They didn’t say anything at first, only locking eyes, but it seemed to be enough to communicate.

“You saw her,” Stiles whispered more calmly but as intensely. “You saw her, dying because of me, right in front of me, and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”

“Don’t–” Derek started, but Stiles interrupted him.

“I’m not giving up. I’m not giving up to this– this–” he struggled with his words before dropping it to continue, “I’m not giving up. I want to show him.”

Derek sighed, but he nodded and let go of Stiles’ wrist. Scott didn’t understand what Stiles was talking about.

He put the phone to his ear, and barely a ring passed before the call was picked up. Immediately, an disagreeable whistling sound came from the phone, making all the weres in the room wince and grimace.

So now they couldn’t listen to the other side of the conversation.

“You’re here, right?” Stiles said, looking disgusted with whatever greeting he had received. “You’re right here, watching us now?” He waited a second, and Scott was very frustrated that he couldn’t hear anything. He was too accustomed to his enhanced hearing, spying on a phone call feeling more natural than intrusive at this point.

The answer seemed to please and anger Stiles at the same time, making him smile viciously and frown even harder. He stomped to the front door, everyone on his heels, and he opened the door violently enough that it banged against the wall.

He dropped the phone to the floor and started screaming, “Are you watching this?”

A neighbor walking his dog looked at them with wide eyes and started rushing away just as his dog stopped to watch them like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. It probably sensed their weirdness.

“Well, watch this,” Stiles yelled again before grasping at the shoulders of his shirt to pull it over his head. He let it fall at his feet and extended his arms to the side. “Look! Look as long and as hard as you want,” Stiles drawled the vowels, a smile on his face, looking like he was proving someone wrong.

“I’m not yours anymore! You see?” he tapped his chest on his left side, the spot he was always rubbing when he got nervous. Derek stepped up and Scott refrained from asking what this was about. “I’m not yours anymore!” Stiles repeated, but his voice cracked on the words this time and he stepped back into Derek’s waiting arms.

Stiles leaned on him for a second, calming down, before he started struggling against the hold again, a raw shout leaving his throat. Derek didn’t let him go, instead taking a deep breath and letting out a howl that meant protection and defiance. Stiles totally relaxed, but it made Scott look to where the neighbor had disappeared, then to the other side of the street.

He froze. There wasn’t any human out. “Guys?” a voice came from the front lawn when Derek’s howl died down. “What’s happening?”

Everyone was staring at the newcomer now. Horror colored their faced, because this changed everything. This meant the rules of the killer’s game could change. Heavy silence fell on the group before Scott took a step forward.

“Isaac?” he whispered. Then ran down the step to hug him.

 

“So, what was this about?” Isaac asked, when they were all inside with the door closed. Everyone was shaken up by what just happened, but Parrish looked to be the most freaked out. It was hard to tell if it was because of the murders and the link to the Stilinskis, or because of the supernatural reveal.

Probably both.

No one answered for a few seconds, all still wrapping their minds around the latest development and what it could mean. The number of Pack members around had changed; Stiles showing the killer something he would very much not like -though they weren’t quite sure what it was- would surely have an effect.

The game already had no rules that they knew about, they already couldn’t play with how blind they were. But it still felt disorientating, like the board they were standing on had been shaken up and everything had moved.

“We have a situation,” Lydia sighed, making Isaac raise his eyebrow. He opened his mouth, ready to reply with something sarcastic, but Stiles closed his eyes and cut him off before he could.

“The Nogitsune,” he said. Isaac flinched, which didn’t go unnoticed, and Stiles opened his eyes again. He didn’t look at anyone though, choosing to stare at a point over Scott’s shoulder. “When we separated, I– all the mark, on my body, the scars they…vanished,” he gestured wildly with one hand before putting it back on his knees.

“Like–” he tried to continue, but paused. Looked down at his hands and cleared his throat. “And before that,” he started again, clearly choosing to let a part of it stay silent, “I had a scar, a– a big one. More like, a bunch of–” he stopped.

Derek got closer to take his hand.

Scott was left wondering how he could have missed something so big all these years. Stiles changing behind the locker door, Stiles never taking his shirt off even when they slept at each other’s houses.

He had assumed it was Stiles’ insecurities keeping him from showing himself even with only Scott in the room.

“He wrote a word, right here,” Stiles rubbed at his ribs again, and it made sense suddenly. Scott already guessed, but he didn’t want to believe it. It made his heart twist in his chest, it was so, so wrong what had happened to his best friend. If only he could change the past.

“He wrote ‘mine’.”

 

 

10♦ _Lydia is pretty and smart and interesting and normal. I wanted to be her friend but she pushed me away, when I tried to talk to her. I didn't understand why. Now I do. What I still don't understand is how he could have thought that I wanted to be hers. I'm his. I know it. No one but him will ever want me. No one but him could ever love me._

12♦ _I'm his. No one else loves me. I miss him sometimes, as much as I hate him. I'm not his.  Maybe I really love Lydia, maybe he was right to hurt me for it. But she doesn’t want me. I guess it means that she can’t really hurt me._

15♦ _I'm his. I'm not his. I don't know anymore. Until I do, Lydia is still there. It's reassuring._

17♦ _The scar is gone. I'm not anyone's but mine._

 

 

After lunch, John was in the kitchen making some coffee for half the Pack, when Stiles came to lean on the counter next to him. They stayed silent for a minute, John leaving Stiles the time to gather his thoughts.

“Dad, I–” he started, huffed in frustration while raking fingers through his hair, tugging on it a little before dropping his arm.

“Why doesn’t he…I don’t know, contact you? You’re…uh, you’re the one that stopped him, that sent him away, so why…,” Stiles stammered out, and John felt the familiar vice around his heart tighten. It was a constant feeling since that day, years ago. He never stopped thinking about it, except when he had a bottle in his hand and Whiskey in his bloodstream.

Stiles seemed to have sensed his father’s discomfort, because he turned to him sharply, leaning his hip against the counter. “Dad, you know none of this is your fault right? I didn’t mean it like that, you couldn’t have known, you– you and mom, there was nothing you could’ve done. He was… _good_ at it. He fooled everyone.”

John turned to look at his son, his earnest face, so desperate to make his father understand. John wanted to remind Stiles that guilt didn’t work like that, because Stiles knew. Everyone in this house _knew_ dammit, and it wasn’t fair. That they were left thinking the hurt of others was on them when all the real monsters were free of this feeling.

He realized suddenly how close the words were from the ones they used for the Nogitsune. _He fooled everyone_. Stiles didn’t believe them when they said it, and John didn’t believe it now either. The added weight of being the parent that failed his baby boy would follow him to his grave.

He smiled sadly at Stiles. “I think he wants me to lose my son,” he said instead of answering the last question. “I think that’s his idea of a revenge. Taking what he failed to have all those years ago because of me.” He closed his eyes briefly, looked down at the tray of coffee cups in front of him to avoid the replaying of memories behind his eyelids.

“You don’t have to worry about me, kid. And you don’t have to worry about all of it too. We’ll stop him tonight. He will not tear this family apart,” no matter how much it felt like he already had. John turned to Stiles and clapped him on the shoulder.

Stiles opened his mouth to say something but froze suddenly, eyes going wide. “Family,” he whispered before running to the living room. John followed him, forgetting the coffee.

Stiles frantically moved the files about, took the list Kira had made. Everyone moved closer, including Parrish that had stayed around. He had taken the whole thing pretty well, already suspicious since the Oni attacked the station, and had been determined to stay and help.

“There!” Stiles exclaimed after turning the pages of the files, “This is it!”

“Okay, Stiles, calm down,” Derek said, putting himself next to Stiles and gently grasping his arm, “explain,” he added in the soft voice he knew could make Stiles’ mind go a little quieter.

Stiles turned to Derek and took his hand, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension in them. “Okay,” he breathed out, then turned to the others. “It’s family,” he announced. “Trevor Lewis, no relatives,” he pointed at the first file, “only son, abandoned by his father a few years before his mother died.

“Jenna Williams, orphan since her early teens, lived with her grandmother until she was eighteen, social services had several call from the neighbors but never found any evidence of abuse, we can assume Williams was never close to her remaining family after she moved out.

“Cristina Vital,” he continued after a pause, “Italian immigrant, never married, no kids, and no parents mentioned anywhere.” He looked up at everyone, “It’s not immediately evident because it’s not like it’s written in black and white, but he’s choosing people with no close family, or no family at all.”

“How can you be sure?” Scott asked, hating that he had to.

“Because I– Because–” Stiles hesitated.

“Because the killer thinks he doesn’t have any family,” John finished for him. They locked eyes for a second, an understanding passing between them.

Scott didn’t add anything, took Satomi’s list from the pile of papers on the table and said they could start working on it. Stiles jumped into the conversation, Parrish joining.

John sighed and shared a look with Derek, who nodded before joining the other’s discussion. Stiles leaned on Derek’s shoulder for a second, and John couldn’t help the nostalgic smile on his lips. Melissa appeared in front of him, coffee in hand, and his smile turned more genuine.

“Sorry, I forgot about those,” he said.

“It’s alright, you have a lot on your mind,” she replied, and he was grateful for her understanding. “They’re good together,” she gestured at Stiles with her coffee as he turned to Derek with a bright look in his tired eyes.

“Yeah, they are,” John whispered, looking at Melissa next to him. It didn’t escape him that, maybe, he had the same look in his eyes that Stiles had, just now.

 

The list was long, and the sun was down by the time they went through every name on it. They had two potential victims, which was a miraculously low number, considering. Most of the people on the list had at least a sibling or a parent still alive, Danny’s tips and software helping them make sure they were still in contact.

“We need to separate again, one group for each place,” Derek declared, eyeing Stiles and waiting for the question he knew would follow.

“Yeah, but where do _I_ go?” he asked, “I need to be there to stop him, it’s my respon–”

“Stiles–” the Sheriff interjected, ready to argue _again_ about this.

‘It is!” Stiles shouted, looking frustrated. “In a way, it is, so let me be the one to stop this! I won’t ever feel free again if I’m not the one to put an end to this, not you, dad, not any of you,” he looked around at the Pack. “And you couldn’t anyway, since he’s protected himself with this weird…,” he hesitated, “concoction, or whatever.” He was panting by the end of his rant.

The Sheriff sighed, but he knew this since the beginning, that Stiles would want to be the one to deal with the situation in the end, and he owed to his son to let him. No matter the danger, no matter how scared he was because of it. After all, Stiles dealt with worse in the past, and alone. This time, they were all here to help and support him, whatever happened.

The Stilinskis looked at each other for a tense minute. Derek supposed the struggle was also that this wasn’t only Stiles’ unfinished business, but the Sheriff’s too. Being the parent made him want to be the one to fix it and keep his son as far from the danger as possible. But it also meant that he had to be selfless and give his son what he needed, ignoring how much he wanted it himself.

When it came down to it, both men were fiercely protective of each other, a sentiment Derek could understand.

John closed his eyes for a second. “Wherever you go, Stiles, I’ll be there with you. You deal with this, but I’m here with you. No negotiation on this.”

Stiles nodded, no argument. It would have seemed weird before, considering how Stiles had tried to keep his father away from the supernatural in the beginning. But after a talk with Derek he had realized that keeping this kind of secrets, keeping people away from what was important, it was hurting them way more than involving them.

You had to let people choose their own path.

“Okay,” Parrish broke the heavy silence that followed, looking at the computer screen with two windows displayed side to side. “So, we have a woman in her thirties, orphan in the system since she was ten, and she’s a– a Ka…Kachina?” he looked at Lydia for help, since she was the one who knew about these things.

“Kachina, Native American spirits,” Lydia simply said.

Parrish continued, “And a man in his twenties, lost half of his family in an electrical fire…,” he slowed down on the word, looking up at Derek as if he were realizing something.

Derek raised an eyebrow, “Could really be an accident, could be hunters, it doesn’t really matter right now,” he said calmly but with a tightness behind his words that made him press against Stiles for comfort.

“Right,” Parrish looked back down at the laptop, “he’s a Valraven. Whatever that is.”

Lydia surprisingly didn’t say anything despite the small pause in the conversation, lost in thoughts, so they started to decide who would go where.

“Lydia, Isaac, Parrish and me, we’ll go check up on the woman,” Scott announced finally,” Kira, Malia, Sheriff, Derek and Stiles, the man.”

Derek looked at Isaac while Stiles was dissecting again the two target’s profiles to see if it was really best that he went to the man’s house. Isaac didn’t come back to be dragged again in this kind of situation, though it was to be expected when you lived in Beacon Hills. It used to be such a quiet town, before the Argents burned down the Hale house.

But he hadn’t complained, which was really weird. It was Isaac after all, his sarcasm matching Stiles’, and he really wasn’t one to hold back on his feelings since he became a werewolf. Since he was free from his dad, most of all.

Isaac looked back, and Derek jerked his head towards the kitchen. He squeezed Stiles hand quickly and headed there, closely followed by Isaac.

“You okay?” Derek asked the teen, glancing down at the way he had crossed his arms on his chest. It made Derek’s heart clench painfully, the way Isaac was on the defensive with him, knowing he deserved it for the way he had kicked him out of the loft.

He also knew that his behavior with his Betas, especially in the beginning, hadn’t been fair of worthy of his position of Alpha. More so when he took into consideration how Isaac had suffered from his dad, making Derek’s own brand of abuse even more unforgivable.

At least, Isaac was willing to talk to him. It was something.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s just…weird, that’s all,” Isaac simply said, looking everywhere except at Derek.

“I know, I– It’s probably not what you came back for. You know you don’t have t–”

“I want to,” Isaac interrupted Derek’s awkward attempt, “I mean, help the Pack. I came back to see if there was still a place for me here, and I knew what kind of shit this town attracts like a magnet. I just didn’t expect the trouble to come from Stiles again.”

Derek couldn’t help the low growl coming from the back of his throat, and Isaac looked sharply at him. He was unapologetic, but Derek didn’t know if he was sincere or if he had said it just to test Derek’s reaction.

“It’s not his fault,” Derek said after a deep breath, hoping that if Isaac meant what he said he would be kind enough not to go say it where Stiles could hear. It only took one person saying what you believed in deep down to destroy the effort of the hundred others assuring you of the opposite.

But Isaac relaxed a fraction. “No, I know. I’ve been there,” he said, eyes hard as they thought back on his past. “Maybe you should talk to him about going to therapy. God knows he looks like he needs one,” he finished, not giving Derek the time to argue that Stiles already was before turning to head back into the living room.

Before he could take a step though, the light flickered. Then turned off. And as far as Derek knew, after feeling a prick in his neck, they didn’t turn back on.

 

John blinked as the lights came on again, looking around to see everyone staring at the ceiling in confusion. Except Stiles. Fear dawned on his face and his breath hitched. He turned to the kitchen slowly before running there.

“Derek!” he yelled on the way, then again once he was there. The desperation in his voice made the others run to him.

John had seen Derek and Isaac head for the kitchen a few minutes ago. And now the room was empty. Stiles fell to his knees on the floor, a card clutched between his fingers. A sound between a whimper and a scream fell out of his lips, a sound John had hoped he would never have to hear again coming from his kid.

He knelt down next to Stiles, rubbing his back and gently prying the card from his hand. It was entirely black, white letters imitating chalk on a blackboard saying, “Two houses, two pretty wolves, one to burn, who to choose?” He turned it, and the second side said, “Be mine or be none’s, at midnight the ticking stops.”

John felt a deep nausea settle in his stomach at the words. Playing games, always playing games; and he fell for it for so long, had been blind to it for too long. In his own home.

Next to him, Stiles was shaking.

“He was telling the story,” he whispered, “never trust the one telling the story.”


	4. Day 3 Pt.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author knows nothing about writing fight scenes, though she does watch a lot of action movies...
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left kudos and comments, I really really love you all <3

_Stiles screams at first, but then there’s pain in his head and his body won’t move like he wants it to. There’s a shadow over him and a weight on his hips, that’s when he realizes he’s lying on his back. His vision is blurry but he discerns the glint of the knife for a second, before it dips towards him and then– it hurts. It hurts too much and Stiles screams again even when it makes his head feel like it’s splitting up._

_He tries to struggle but his arms are trapped. He’s always so weak. Hot tears run down the side of his head and into his hair. He wants to pass out but his brain refuses, and then the burning pain leaves place to a throbbing one. The bedroom door bursts open._

Stiles took his phone again, hands steady. His rage was cold and dark, uncoiling from around his heart; in that moment he was more scared of it than of his opponent. It felt like being possessed.

Dozens of revenge scenarios ran through his mind, gory and violent; half thought in Japanese. Stiles paid no mind to his newfound bilingualism anymore, except to keep it quiet. Only Derek knew, because Stiles let his guard down enough around him to slip up occasionally.

Derek.

God, he couldn’t lose him.

Stiles put the phone to his ear, the dialing tone barely starting before the call was answered. “You’ll see,” a taunting voice came from the receiver, and Stiles almost lost himself in flashbacks -the MRI and the school and his bedroom- but his anger burned through every memory.

“You’ll see that I am better than you, and I’ll just have to brand you as mine again, won’t I? But first you have to realize, _Stiles_ , that I’m better than you. Smarter. Because you didn’t figure it out, did you? You belong to me, Sti, you have to know that. I’m the one who knows you better than anyone else.”

“You don’t,” Stiles seethed, ignoring the concern looks of the others in the room. He couldn’t look at them like this, with this hatred burning in him. “You really really don’t. I’m coming for them and you’ll–”

A chuckle interrupted him. “What was it that your demon did all the time? Ah, yeah, tell me Stiles, what belongs to you but others use it more than you do?” he laughed, Stiles closing his eyes to push back the panic clawing at his inside under the fury. “Well, now. Who really knows the answer to that question? Me.”

All Stiles could hear after that was the tone of an ended call. He didn’t move for a few seconds, breathing heavy. Then turned around with a yell and threw the phone across the room with such strength that it dented the wall and tumbled down the floor in pieces.

Melissa would be pissed later, but she didn’t say anything right then and Stiles was grateful. He already felt like shit because of it.

“He’ll be at one of the two houses,” Stiles croaked out, not looking back at the others. They were all so silent. He couldn’t bear to look at them and see pity and doubt on their faces. He needed to trust himself, trust that he could get it right this time.

A hand on his shoulder made him tense.

“We’ll split up like we intended to,” Scott said, “we’re too close to midnight to stay together.”

“No,” Stiles argued, “because I need to be at the right place.” He turned away, shaking off the hand and ignoring the guilt at doing so, walking back to the files. “There has to be something in there that will give us a clue.”

“What do you mean the right place?” Malia asked. When Stiles glanced at her, she was holding the card in her hand. Thinking about it made the panic flare up, so he looked away quickly. “Won’t Isaac and Derek be each in one of the two houses?”

Stiles paused, collecting his thoughts and arguments. “I don’t think so. But some of you will go check out the other house to be sure,” he declared, positive that Derek and Isaac would be in the same place despite the formulation on the card.

The two possibilities were cruel, almost equally so.

On one hand, there was the idea of separating Isaac and Derek: making Stiles go to one house knowing that he would never have time to reach the other in time before midnight; but that would be easily fixed by splitting up the Pack. Plus, there would be no way to be sure of where Stiles would go, which would put a damper on a showdown that was without doubt meticulously planned.

The other option felt like the better one. Stiles would have to find the right place, either succeeding and being there for the last part of the game or getting it wrong and being faced with an empty house and the knowledge that two of his loved ones were dead.

Stiles would argue that Isaac was barely a friend, but despite everything that’d happened and the way they acted with one another, it would be a lie.

From a strategic perspective, the second option would also be smarter: having all hostages where the variables could be directly controlled meant less chance of something going wrong.

The tension in the room was palpable. They had - _Stiles_ had- less than an hour to guess where to go, taking in consideration the time to get there. But he needed to stop and think things thoroughly if he wanted to be absolutely certain of his choice before leaving.

He sat down in front of the computer, pulling up everything they had compiled about the potential victims. He read through it again. And again. Narrowing his eyes at the screen, he stopped at the parts about their families, the most important part.

The woman was an only child, her parents died in a car accident -nothing pointing to a supernatural or hunter caused death. The man used to have many siblings, but only two of them survived the fire. One was in a nursing home at the other end of the country, one was AWOL. There was no evidence of contact with any of the two.

Neither of them had anyone else to contact either.

Stiles knew what the decisive criteria should be, but it wouldn’t be that easy. It was exactly like playing games: you _know_ what strategy your opponent will go with, and they know that you know. Being aware of that, they will adopt a second strategy, so you prepare the counter move accordingly. But maybe they’ll count on you doing that and surprise you by going back to the initial strategy. It was an endless mindfuck.

What would make the scale tip?

Stiles closed his eyes for a second, pushing everything else to the background: the soft sound of Scott trying to start a basic plan with the others, his dad’s worried gaze on his back, Derek’s absence. He needed to go back on his past to find a clue. He needed remember the days when he knew his abuser better than himself.

 

 

_“You’re good to go,” the woman says with a smile, pushing him gently out of her office. Stiles’ parents go in to talk to her, only pausing to flash a reassuring smile his way. The doctor had said that she would explain everything to him, she just wanted a few second alone with them before that._

_“They’re going to give you meds, and you’ll be even more stupid,” a taunting voice sing-songs next to him, but Stiles doesn’t turn. He’s not in the mood for any games, something he knows he’ll pay for later. “It’s because you’re not clever like me. You’re too dumb to know how to pretend, but I tell them exactly what they want to hear. They don’t know that you should never trust the one telling the story.”_

 

 

“Never trust…,” Stiles mumbled, opening his eyes again. If this was a story being told, what did it say? At first, they tried to guess an M.O. as best as they could from only two murders. It hadn’t been enough, something they had been painfully aware of when they started.

The connection between the victims hadn’t been immediately obvious -something Stiles should have guessed immediately. That had been on purpose.

Then Stiles had realized that the missing link was the victims’ families.

And he knew that the killer had counted on it. After all, Stiles needed to get that part right so the last scene could be played out: two houses, two hostages. And Stiles’ choice.

Thinking about Derek and Isaac, Stiles couldn’t help the painful realization that, on top of one of the two being his boyfriend, even choosing them as hostages was fitting if you didn’t count Cora. Like a twisted aesthetic.

The fact that Derek _did_ have a remaining sibling couldn’t be a coincidence, or maybe it totally was and Stiles was overthinking it. He needed to think simpler. Cut out the parts that had no direct incidence on how things would end tonight.

So he got back on track. There would be another layer to the family thing, hidden under a misleading element, something that made this woman and this man perfect choices for the set up.

Stiles looked up at the computer screen, and started typing. It took seconds only to get his answer. Derek and Isaac would be at the woman’s house.

Stiles had the solution, finally, but it still didn’t feel like a victory. Not counting on the fact that the game was far from over, he felt the crushing weight of the last days’ failure on his shoulders. Three people dead because of him. One of them because he couldn’t figure it out sooner. He _really_ was too stupid.

He just had to hope he would manage to save Derek and Isaac; hope that the woman was still alive and wouldn’t be a casualty of the big finale.

“Stiles…,” there was a hand on his shoulder, his dad’s, and this time he didn’t shrug it off.

“I know where they are,” Stiles simply said, turning to look at his father. He felt selfish at that moment, because he was taking something from him. He would probably take even more tonight.

“It’s gonna be okay, dad,” he tried to smile, getting up to hug his father. “I won’t–” he bit his lower lip, glad his dad couldn’t see his face. He avoided looking at Scott who was watching them, avoided thinking about the fact that Scott could hear him and smell his emotions. The ugliness stirring in his chest, anger and a want to just…give up.

“I won’t let him win this,” he finished, so desperate to let out every word stuck in his throat but afraid it would feel too much like saying goodbye. They needed to feel like there would an after. Stiles, ready to fight and win _whatever the cost_ , needed to believe that his own life wouldn’t be the price. For the sake of his father and his Pack.

“Okay, kiddo,” John broke the hug with a weary sigh, “where are they?”

Stiles tried his hardest not to miss his father’s embrace. There wasn’t any time to hide in it.

“Joan Halliwel. Her dad died in the car accident but her mom…she died in the hospital a few days later.” He didn’t need to say that Joan had been there, probably holding her mother’s hand when the life left her.

He didn’t need to say that he knew exactly how that felt.

“Parrish and Lydia will go check the guy’s house, the rest of us are coming with you,” Scott jumped in, looking at Stiles with a face that said there were no negotiations on this. “Mom will wait in the car…just in case,” he added with an apologetic smile.

Stiles looked up and around. They were all here, all surrounding him and offering him support and determination. He smiled through the tears pooling in his eyes. He swore to himself again that he wouldn’t let his own past take away his family.

 

 

_Stiles struggles against his dad for a moment, not realizing he’s free and there’s no one to hurt him again. He’s feeling lightheaded and heavy at the same time, doesn’t really understand what’s happening. There’s screams downstairs, he thinks he recognizes his mother’s voice._

_He can’t focus on what his dad is saying, and between one blink and the next he’s in the car. But no, not in the car, in the cruiser, and he’s on the front seat even though he’s not allowed to be yet because his dad is always saying he’s not big enough. He doesn’t look behind, at the backseat. The ride to the hospital is a blur._

_The nurses are nice. One of them say, “He won’t hurt you anymore, hun,” and he smiles but he doesn’t understand._

_It’s only after, when he wakes up again with gauze and a dull ache on his chest, head throbbing, that he gets it. His dad comes to talk to him and he gets it. He starts crying and crying, he can’t seem to stop himself, he yells words that are too incoherent to be clear to anyone, he knows._

_They think he’s relieved. A part of him is. The rest feels dead. Because if they take_ him _away, there’s nothing left. He’s nothing, without the best half of himself._

 

 

They approached the house silently, Stiles ahead of the others. His dad was behind his at his left, Scott at his right, and then Kira and Malia.

Scott and Malia growled lowly at the back of their throats, and Stiles turned to them slightly. Scott gestured to his ears. Their hearing was useless, which could be a good sign; but it could also be a trick.

Stiles walked up the stairs to the front porch, no lights indicating anyone was home. But the front door was ajar, something that was probably a coincidence but felt like fate.

There was only twenty minutes to midnight, and it wasn’t enough time to get from one house to the other, if Stiles was wrong and Parrish called them in panic. He had to be right. He spared a thought to the owner of the house, hoped that she would still be alive by the end of the night. Then focused back on the present.

The entrance was dark, but there was a small flickering light coming from the living room, looking like it came from a candle. When Stiles stepped in, he noticed that the room was bare of any furniture. It must have taken time to empty it and put everything in place. This had been planned well in advance.

Right in the middle of the room was the candle, directly on the wooden floor, and on each side of it were two circles of mountain ash. Isaac and Derek were lying unconscious inside, and Stiles felt a bone deep relief almost make his knees buckle.

But the game wasn’t over yet.

A whistle resonated from deeper into the house, making Stiles freeze and turn to the dark hallway opening on the far right of the living room, accompanied by the sounds of steps approaching and something heavy being dragged on the floor. Stiles shuddered when he recognized the melody of Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life and took an instinctive step back.

He had forgotten, how could he have forgotten about the song? He felt on the edge of falling into a deep, dark pit. Tried to pull himself back together.

Stiles opened his mouth to call out, an act of defiance that he hoped would give him some confidence, but before he had time to make a single sound, the chandelier on the ceiling lighted up and _he_ stepped into the room. All the air left Stiles lungs. It was like a punch to the chest.

Behind him, he heard everyone gasp.

 

 

 _Stiles doesn't look at himself in the mirror. Every time he does, it's like feeling the hole in his heart a little more. It's feeling anger and love and fear and longing, it's hating himself for letting_ this _happen to him but also missing it. He can't help it._

_He looks at the words written backwards in the mirror, Ǝ_ _И_ _IM, trace the letters on his chest with the tip of his fingers._

_He doesn't look up. He knows that if he does, he'll have a panic attack. That's why his mom is standing behind him, clippers in hand, ready to buzz his hair. So that, when he's face to face with himself, he can see a little less of his brother._

 

 

“Stuart,” Stiles whispered loud enough for everyone to hear. In front of him, a startling copy of him stood. He looked wrong, but in a different way than the Nogitsune.

Healthier, for one. A mirror image instead of a clone. His hair was buzzed like Stiles’ used to be, before he had grown enough to stop seeing his ten years old brother in the mirror. Stiles had looked so young with short hair. Stuart just looked dangerous.

Stiles’ twin leaned the sword in his hand against a wall and grinned. Everyone shuddered; Stiles stood perfectly still, face contorted in disgust.

“Stiles,” he tilted his head, voice sweet like honey, “glad to see you finally got it right. It would’ve been a shame to start this party without you,” he chuckled. Stiles didn’t answer, heart thundering in his chest but body still like a statue. His silence didn’t faze his brother in the least.

It was so hard, looking at Stuart. Last time, he had been a kid. In Stiles’ memories, in his imagination until he knew Stuart was back, he had been a kid. Then, Stiles had avoided picturing him at all, because it was too easy: all it took was remembering the Nogitsune.

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat, tried to ignore the churning in his stomach. The nausea was familiar, but still difficult to manage.

“Did you pack a bag?” Stuart asked before frowning and raising a finger to his mouth like he was thinking, “Oh no, wait. You can take my clothes. Be a little more _mine_. It’s not only a werewolf thing, you know?”

“I’m not coming with you,” Stiles gritted out, glancing at Derek and Isaac lying between him and his brother.

Stuart hummed and shrugged, “You may think so right now, but trust me you will come with me once you know the rules of this game. But, this is kinda rude, Sti, you didn’t introduce me to your _Pack_ ,” he spat the word out with a snarl, looking around the room. His eyes stopped on the Sheriff and his face contorted to show deep hatred.

“Oh, hey dad! Missed me since you sent me away?” the smile on his face grew colder and was downright terrifying. “Did you miss mom at all, or were you too busy fucking Mrs McCall?” he viciously added. Stiles side stepped to block Stuart’s view of their fathers, ignoring the choked sound he made and Scott’s low growling.

“What do you want?” Stiles asked.

“You know what I want, Stiles, are you still that stupid? The question is how I will get it,” Stuart walked between the mountain ash circles, and Derek and Isaac started to stir up as if on cue. “See, I had plenty of time to get ready. To get to this exact instant,” he inhaled and raised his hands a little at his sides.

“Stiles…?” Derek faintly called from the ground, half up on shaking arms but head bent down.

“And he’s awake!” Stuart said, looking down at Derek. “Gotta say, I really thought you would be with you dear Lydia by now. You surprised me, Sti.”

Derek fell heavily back down on his side, half-opened eyes unfocused.

“I never loved her,” Stiles answered, knowing that Lydia had figured out that all these years, it had been something else that had made Stiles look at her all the time; that it hadn’t even been Stiles that she had met all those years ago but Stuart, and his jealousy, his vicious words.

He hoped that she knew, that none of what happened between him and his brother was her fault, because she certainly was smart enough to have put things together and worked the timeline. She had to know, that she hadn’t done anything wrong.

Lydia had freed Stiles, no matter how indirectly.

Stuart’s face went blank. “Didn’t you?” he asked, and Stiles felt a petty pleasure in knowing that Stuart was realizing that he had made a big mistake the day he had attacked Stiles, one that had cost him his freedom and not being there for his mother’s last days.

There used to be nothing more precious to Stuart than his mother, who he held way above Stiles even. He’d had a love for his mother that didn’t compel him to hurt her. An almost unhealthy worship.

Stuart used to love his dad, even if he thought himself smarter than the man. And the blame for being sent away had needed to find a target so love became hate. That simple.

The issue with Stiles’ brother had never been an inability to love.

And Stiles reminded himself that the clock was ticking. “I never did. Not as clever as you think you are, heh?” Stiles allowed the first smile of the night to appear on his lips, glad that no one else but Stuart could see it because it was an ugly one. “Let’s get this over with,” he finished, fists clenching at his sides.

“Fine!” Stuart said with a dramatic sigh, turning his back on all of them because he was _that_ confident. He moved back to the wall to pick up his sword. He had no problem swinging it around like it weighted nothing, and if Stiles hadn’t known about the concoction Stuart put on himself, he would have wondered if his brother was a creature of some kind.

Stiles watched Stuart move around. It was painful, so painful because a part of him had missed his brother for so long, and he had never allowed himself that. Had never allowed himself to think it was okay to miss him.

“Look at that,” Stuart announced, looking at the watch on his wrist with a smirk, “perfect timing! Five minutes until midnight. You can come with me right now, and I’ll free your dogs,” he vaguely motioned to Derek and Isaac, the younger still unconscious and Derek jerking with his failed attempts at getting his arms under himself. “Or you can try and fight me, but trust me. You’ll never get close enough to free the two of them before they die. And you’ll be my winning prize.”

He tilted his head and bit his lower lip, whispered like he was telling a secret, “I’ll try not to damage you too much.”

Stiles couldn’t see any visible mechanism, but there must have been something to kill Derek and Isaac at midnight. Stuart bounced on the balls of his feet, “I warded the circles so only you or me can break them,” he smiled.

Stiles growled like a wolf. He felt desperation in his chest. But he couldn’t give himself up. His Pack was with him, but they were powerless. He glanced at the trapped wolves, heart clenching. Maybe that’s what Lydia had been sensing, the thing that had blocked her Banshee’s senses. Someone was going to die tonight.

“What are we waiting for, then?” he hissed with more confidence than he felt, extending a hand to his side. Kira got closer to put her sword in his palm. He breathed out and brought it in front of him, putting his feet in position, knees bent.

Stuart laughed. “I see your little demon left you a parting gift.” Then he lunged at Stiles.

 

 

_“I saw that Lydia girl today,” Stuart says, and there’s this dangerous glint in his eyes that means Stiles did something wrong. He tries to go back on everything he said, but all he can think about is mentioning the new and very smart girl in class. He freezes, understands his mistake suddenly._

_There’s something dark between his brother’s fingers. He recognizes the handle of the pocket knife Stuart’s not supposed to have. He’s never been so afraid than now, his brother advancing on him with a sneer._

_“You think you can have a crush on her? Huh? You think you can be_ hers _?” Stuart spits out, and Stiles shakes his head frantically, can’t make any sound come out of his mouth. “I’m gonna make sure you know who you belong to.”_

_Stuart lunges for Stiles who suddenly finds his voice and yells, a litany of ‘no, no, no, stop’ spilling out of his mouth as he struggles against his twin. When Stuart is tired of the fight, he presses Stiles against the wall, puts his palm on his brother’s forehead and violently pushes._

_Stiles feels his head connecting with the wall, thinks he heard a cracking sound, crumbles to the floor. Stars and tears cloud his vision, sharp pain at the back of his skull disorientating him. He barely feels Stuart straddling him, pulling up his shirt._

_There’s hot pain on his chest._

_Then nothing._

_When someone touches his shoulder, he gets back to the present and finds his strength to trash and try to dislodge his attacker. But soft words finally come to his awareness. It’s his dad. It’s his dad. He’s safe._

 

 

The two swords clashed, Stuart pushing down on Kira’s katana. Stiles panted in anger, blood flowing from the shallow cut on his cheek, looking at the too calm face of his brother inches from his own. It feels like looking in an out-of-sync mirror.

“A sword, huh?” Stiles breathed out, keeping his focus on blocking the other weapon.

“Thought it would be more dramatic,” Stuart smirked with a half shrug.

Stiles stepped to the side, the sound of metal sliding against metal echoing in the room. Stuart took a step forward and in the same move brought his sword back up towards Stiles who bent his arm to counter the move.

He was dying to know what the others were doing, but he had to keep his eyes on the fight. Try to get closer to the circles, break them. He knew he would never be able to get more than one of them open, and knew he could never live with having to make that choice, willingly or not.

But he had to _try_.

Stiles forced Stuart to sidestep him, and came within touching distance of Derek’s circle, the wolf having managed to get on his knees but still a little out of it, calling Stiles’ name in broken whispers.

Stiles chanced a glance at Isaac to see his friends at a safe distance from the fight trying to get past the barrier, the teen groaning but still unconscious. He would be dead before he even woke up. The minutes they had left would never be enough for even Scott’s True Alphaness to work past the mountain ash and whatever else.

The second of inattention was enough and Stuart’s sword came at Stiles from his right, forcing him to twist and step away from Derek. He let out a huff of frustration, then a groan of pain when he registered the new cut in his thigh. It hurt awfully but wasn’t deep enough to keep him from putting his weight on his leg.

Stiles backtracked enough to take a breath. He wouldn’t win against Stuart, he had some knowledge of fighting thanks to the Nogitsune’s memories but not enough practice. He was exhausted, not only physically but mentally too, and there couldn’t be much time left on the clock.

No one could beat Stuart short of putting a bullet in him, and their father shouldn’t have to shoot one of his sons, no matter what. Stuart was still his kid even if the only argument the Sheriff’d had against using a gun had been that there would be too much risk of accidentally hitting Stiles or someone else in the room.

Stiles almost asked them all not to come, then, but he hadn’t been brave enough to do this alone. Maybe that would be his downfall in the end.

So he couldn’t beat his brother. But while he was distracting Stuart, the others could work on going through the circles and the wards.

The wards.

Stuart said only the two of them could go through them. But…wards should be visible. He glanced as fast as he could at the ceiling, saw nothing, blocked his brother’s next hit with the katana.

He thought of one of Stuart’s most hard learned lesson. _You should never trust the one telling the story_.

Stiles ran to his left without breaking eye contact with Stuart. Heard two people running into the room. Lydia and Parrish. Under his breath, Stiles frantically said, “Get Parrish to break the circles!”

Behind Stuart who was slowly making his way to him, Stiles saw Scott wave at Parrish, the deputy running closer. Stiles couldn’t see his dad, didn’t want to imagine what witnessing this must be like for him.

All that he needed to focus on were Stuart’s frown and–

Scott and Parrish pulling Isaac out of the trap.

The two swords clashed again, Stiles arms shaking from the strain. He looked deep into his twin’s eyes, breathed his air.

“Ready to give yourself up, Sti? Only thirty seconds left on the clock,” Stuart smiled mischievously, unaware that onf of his hostages was free, and the other about to be. Stiles laughed, surprising his brother.

“Not even close, Stu.” He yelled as he pushed with all the strength he had left. Stuart stumbled back, glanced over his shoulder.

His face contorted his rage. Before he even started to look back at Stiles, he was screaming in pure rage, running toward him. Stiles’ eyes widened, took a half step back. They were too close. He didn’t have time to–

Somewhere at the edge of his awareness, people screamed. All he could really feel, though, was the hilt of the katana digging into his stomach, the bones in his arms and wrists vibrating from the impact, the warmth of a body pressing against his own. Over his brother’s shoulder, he could see the tip of the sword, tainted red.

The horrified face of his father.

There were two loud bangs, but Stiles didn’t notice over the ringing in his ears. He started choking up. It registered then that his abdomen was burning in white hot pain. The warmth between him and his twin was wet. Blood. The same one that he was spitting up. He gasped, tears that he couldn’t feel running down his cheek.

Stuart whispered in his ear, voice only a faint croak. “Mine again. Mi–” he choked on the word, panting, “I didn’ want to…end like th– like this. But mom,” he whined, “D’you th– think ‘m gonna see her again?”

Stiles world turned black after that.

He didn’t hear Lydia scream, fifteen minutes after midnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...yeah. One more to go!  
> Thoughts?


	5. Day 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author knows nothing about medical stuff either, so it's safe to say the author bluffs a lot while writing! She used to watched House M.D. but there's actually some lupus in this story *wink wink* so it wouldn't be useful anyway.

Everything was happening as in a dream.

Derek felt heavy and light at the same time, bones aching and skin desperately trying to find purchase on the ground but mind drifting, floating away from the anchor of his own body. He was so, so far away from everything happening right in front of him, and yet acutely aware that it was real.

Painfully real.

The words exchanged between the two Stiles never really made it to his brain, seemed to be only strings of sounds without sense.

Two Stiles. That wasn’t right. Stiles and his brother, yes. Stiles and the twin he told Derek about. The manipulative kid, and despite everything Derek’d had a hard time grasping the idea of an abusive child. Now, here he was, in all his vicious glory.

Derek groaned. It was hard to focus. He realized in a detached way that he had been making sounds for a while now, probably saying Stiles’ name. He was on his knees and not splayed on the floor anymore. He hadn’t felt himself moving. He frowned.

It was too slow, coming back to himself, way too slow when it took two blinks of his eyes to understand that a fight had started. It looked so absurd, Stiles fighting a shadow of himself dressed in clothed he would never even consider wearing -tight black tank top and leather pants.

No one was helping, why? _A mix of plants on his skin_ a faraway voice told him, but he didn’t understand. Where the hell did Stiles learn to use a katana? _The Nogitsune_ and this time it was easier to comprehend. The drug was leaving his system.

He turned his head, saw Isaac on the floor, eyes closed. The rest of the Pack was trying to get through the barrier on the floor, Scott pushing with all his True Alpha’s strength, Kira getting zapped every time she touched the invisible barrier. Malia had her fangs and claws out, obviously frustrated.

Derek put his hands on his own prison walls, pushed weakly just for the feeling of trying. Stiles got close for a second, his panting breaths heard over the clashing of the swords, heartbeat too fast. He was already tired all the time, the exertion was draining him too fast.

Stuart gracefully moved, and Stiles moved back. Derek could see the blood on his thigh, but he couldn’t smell it. A small wound was oozing blood down his cheek and his neck.

Behind the fighters, the Sheriff was standing seeming still and strong like a rock, gun in a hand that was twitching between the urge to use it and the fear of hitting someone else than his intended target. The fear of hitting his intended target. His face showed just how ready he was to crumble.

Parrish and Lydia barged in. They froze in the doorway, Parrish moving to get his own gun out but Scott perked up, looked at Stiles and frantically called the deputy.

Derek didn’t know what to look at, the twins breathing each other’s air with the swords between them or Parrish breaking Isaac’s barrier like it was nothing. Isaac was safe. Parrish was running to the second circle now.

A hoarse yell made Derek turn his head back to the fight just in time to see Stuart run to Stiles, the panicked look on his boyfriend’s face. He pounded his fists on the transparent wall in front of him, shouting for Stiles, adrenaline making his heart beat faster and burning away the fog clouding his mind.

He stumbled forward and on his hand, barrier broken, just as Stuart collided with Stiles. Derek couldn’t process the Pack’s screams over sound of his own blood rushing through his veins.

Parrish took him under the shoulders to get him away from the broken circle, Derek scrambling on half useless legs to try and get closer to Stiles. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the tip of the katana covered in blood, sticking out from Stuart’s back.

Couldn’t tear his eyes away from Stiles face, blank for a second before his eyes painfully closed and reopened with tears in them. He coughed, blood trickling down his chin to stain his brother’s shoulder.

Something exploded behind Derek, making him flinch instinctively even if he didn’t really register it, focused on the horror that was freezing his blood and making his heart feel like it was ripped out of his chest.

The Sheriff didn’t get there in time to try and stop his sons fall, knees hitting the red puddle forming under them before they tilted to the side and hit the ground. They almost looked like they were embracing each other, face relaxed in unconsciousness.

Derek prayed every god he didn’t believe in that Stiles wasn’t dead.

He escaped Parrish’s arm against which he hadn’t really realized he was struggling, got to the twins at the same time as Melissa and she pushed him a little to the side. Derek looked up to see the Sheriff on his knees on the other side of his kids. He quickly looked away from the devastation on the man’s face.

Melissa spoke fast and clear, giving instruction that Derek was incapable of following. He felt like he was under the drug’s influence again. Heavy and light at the same time. Straining to hear Stiles’ heartbeat.

He let himself be maneuvered -really was too out of it to struggle again- so Parrish and his cold head could take his place and try to staunch the blood flowing from Stiles’ wound around the sword. Lydia was doing the same with Stuart, hands steady despite the tears in her eyes and the disgust on her face. Derek couldn’t tell if it was because of the injury or the identity of the man she was trying to save.

She was so silent. Biting her lips. Derek hated that. He knew what it meant, he knew that a scream was building inside of her.

Over the absence of Lydia’s voice and the frantic instructions from Melissa, over the weak heartbeat of Stiles, Derek heard the ambulances.

He looked up to Scott on his knees, looking on the verge of breaking in pieces, Kira with tears on her face and a phone in her trembling hand. She must have been the one to call for help, to go get Melissa when none of them could even move.

Malia had her eyes closed, and he knew that she was trying to control herself. If anyone let her, she would be finishing Stuart off. Derek would’ve been tempted, had he been alone in the room.

The paramedics came in, a frenzy of movements and shouts that Derek tried to follow behind the ringing in his ears.

He got up.

Looked blankly at Stuart being carried away.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump. “Ride with Stiles, please,” the Sheriff asked him, pain in his eyes before he followed his other son. Derek, through the shock that was forcing his body and mind to dissociate, was relieved. He could stay with Stiles. He could stay close for a little longer.

He could listen to his heart beat for as long as he could. As long as it would.

 

The ambulance just started to drive back to the hospital when it happened. At first Derek didn’t hear the silence in Stiles’ chest over the sound of Lydia’s scream echoing in his head, rattling his bones. Stiles absence of heartbeat filled his entire body until all there was left was emptiness.

He died with Stiles and only came back to life four minutes later along with him. But he could tell. Stiles, body on the gurney, was already floating away and up, up, up, all the way to the stars. Derek took his hand. Hoped he could be Stiles’ anchor to earth.

 

Five hours after coming in, Derek stopped looking at the clock. He had no idea how much time had passed since then, only knew the aches of his body from sitting in the same chair for so long.

The Sheriff was up and pacing, but dropped down next to Derek with a heavy sigh for a few minutes before resuming his walking around. The rest of the Pack was going on food and drink runs every once in a while, but Derek couldn’t stomach anything.

Melissa was somewhere at the heart of the hospital, as close to Stiles as she could. But she hadn’t reappeared yet to give them news.

Lydia was sitting next to Derek, her hand tightly grasping his. At any other time, he would be marveling at the fact that she was seeking comfort from _him_ , but the shock of the situation hadn’t quite worn off yet, and he was pretty sure it wouldn’t until he was alone and not waiting for news. Years of habit didn’t let him break in front of people.

Derek leaned his head on the wall behind him, keeping his focus on the feel of Lydia’s skin against his own, the strength in her fingers. He could feel her tense up and relax in turn, almost in sync with the Sheriff’s pacing.

The sun was up when Melissa emerged from the O.R.s area. She looked worn and tired, but she gave them a small smile that gave Derek hope.

“The surgeries were a success,” she started, and the strain in her voice told Derek that there was a bit more to it than just that. It wasn’t the time to push though, and the doctor would probably be out soon to speak with Stiles’ dad anyway. “Stiles will need close monitoring for a few days at least, I won’t lie and say he’s totally out of the woods yet, but he’s as okay as he can be.”

She paused, moved closer to the Sheriff but he took a half-step back. It didn’t go unnoticed, nor did the hurt and confusion on her face. Derek didn’t understand, but Scott looked away and he guessed it was none of his business.

“Stuart, uh,” Melissa started again, “might need another surgery, nothing too serious. The doctors don’t expect complications other than the usual with these kinds of injuries.”

“They’re kept separated, right?” John asked in a choked up voice, and Derek couldn’t help the flare of pity he felt for the man.

Melissa nodded. “The station sent deputies to guard them, I think Parrish called,” she hesitated, and Derek only then noticed the man’s absence. “Stuart is secured to the bed.”

The Sheriff closed his eyes and sighed, running a hand through his hair with the other one on his hip. It was such a Stiles’ thing to do that Derek’s throat closed up for a second.

“Okay, okay,” John whispered to himself before looking up with tired and watery eyes, “that’s…not okay, never be okay, but that’s good. God, I’ll have to–”

“John,” Melissa interrupted him with a hand on his arm, and this time he didn’t move away. “You’ll think about the rest later, okay? Parrish is taking care of things right now, and they’ll leave you alone for a few days.”

He nodded. Melissa continued, “Now,” she said in a low voice, “you’re allowed a very quick visit to them both after the doctors comes to talk with you, and after they’ve been checked over you’ll get normal visiting time.” She turned to the Pack and added louder, “The rest of you should go home and rest.”

Scott looked ready to protest but a look from John kept him quiet. You could see in the man’s eye that he didn’t have it in him to worry about another one of his boys that day, so Scott took Kira by the arm and left with a promise from his mom to be called as soon as things changed. The rest of the Pack followed.

Derek stayed right where he was, and that was enough to make the Sheriff understand. “Can he come too?” he asked Melissa, pointing at Derek with a move of his chin. She looked unsure for a second before nodding. “Discreetly, okay? You’re not supposed to.”

As if on cue, two doctors came out through the same double doors as Melissa a minute ago. Despite their change of clothes, the scent of blood was still lingering on them. It was impossible to say if it was Stiles’ though, because it mixed with the general smell of pain, anxiety, medicine and cleaning products that permeated the walls of the hospital and clang to their skins.

“Mr Stilinski?” one of them asked, and Derek took a step back to allow them a semblance of privacy. They couldn’t know that he could still hear them talking. He looked down and focused on the voices.

The words washed over Derek, though. He wouldn’t let them mean anything, not now that he knew Stiles would be okay. Human injuries weren’t as foreign as people thought it was for a born werewolf: they had watched TV, grown up amongst humans in town and in their family. Derek wasn’t a stranger to sickness and injuries.

He could even empathize. For all the difference in meaning for ‘life-threatening’, he still knew what it was like from up close, and pain was a flash feeling but it still was pain. The weirdest thing to witness, though, was the slow knitting back of skin, days upon days of scabbing; the mending of bones that needed casts; the list was endless. But it was still amazing how resilient humans were as a species.

It was because he understood, that Derek didn’t let the words stick to him: infection, ventilator, internal bleeding, major organs. He grasped at “surgery was a success” and “expecting a full recovery” instead. He tuned them completely out when the other doctor started talking about Stuart.

He didn’t want to feel anything for him, pity or vindication.

Soon enough, they were gone, and Melissa came back to quietly take them through the long corridors until they came to a door guarded by a deputy. John greeting him tiredly.

As soon as his eyes found Stiles’ form, Derek forgot all about the guard and the hard days ahead and the questioning they’ll have to go through eventually.

Stiles looked pale and small, two black stitches closing the gash on his cheek contrasting as sharply as his moles with his skin. He didn’t look particularly peaceful, a faint frown on his face, but he was sedated and deeply asleep.

Derek’s gut clenched at the sight of the ventilator. “The doctors are positive that he won’t need it for too long, he just needs a little help while he heals,” Melissa assured him with a hand on his arm.

“He stopped breathing in the ambulance,” Derek breathed out his first words since the night before.

Melissa looked at him. “I know,” she gently answered, “they won’t be sure until he wakes up but they’re very hopeful that there won’t be consequences than can’t be reversed.”

Derek sniffed. That’s when he realized he was crying. Melissa offered him a small smile before gently ushering him and the Sheriff out. Derek was left standing in the corridor while John was taken to Stuart.

Walking away from Stiles’ door was the hardest thing he had to do since burying Laura.

 

The others went back to Scott’s, wanting to stick close to each other. Kira and Malia went upstairs to share Scott’s bed at his insistence that they would sleep better there, Isaac found his way back to the bedroom he had occupied in the McCall’s house before.

Lydia and Scott were too anxious to even lie down, so they went to the kitchen to grab something warm to drink. Scott couldn’t help the chill running up his back when he stepped into the room, remembering how easily Derek and Isaac had been snatched from there the night before.

It felt like it had been ages ago.

“Crazy story, huh?” Scott lamely said out of a need to break the heavy silence. “I– I was expecting it,” he continued more grimly, “the resemblance, but it was still…,” he stopped and looked at the steaming mug Lydia was putting in front of him. She came to sit down at the table with her own tea.

“I met him before,” Lydia stated like it was nothing, like she didn’t feel dirty just thinking about it. She didn’t want to feel that, because she knew how absurd it was: it wasn’t like the guy had touched her or anything. Still. She hated it. Scott looked up at her, confused.

“What do you mean?” he asked, already guessing what’d happen. It added to the feel of having acid in his stomach, to the worry on his shoulders, to the blood he couldn’t stop seeing and smelling and–

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before looking at Lydia again, who was waiting patiently for his silent freak out to be over.

“I was new in town, a few years before you I think, I’m not sure. I didn’t notice Stiles, the first days, I was already with the cool kids,” she chuckled along with Scott, then her face became serious again and she made a face. “I can’t be sure, and I won’t be asking Stiles about it but I worked the timeline again and again in my heard and…

“I guess Stiles came home and, like every other kid does, talked about the new girl to his family. Then one day I was in the grocery store with my mom and I walked away to get something and…,” she hesitated, cleared her throat, “he was there,” she croaked out. “I thought, going back to class and seeing the same kid, I thought it had been Stiles.

“I don’t even know why they weren’t in the same class but I had no idea he had a twin when I saw him in the store, and he was so _mean_. Like, really cruel, even, made me cry all the tears I had and didn’t even had to touch a single hair on my head to do it.”

Scott could see how Lydia was shaken up by the story. “That’s why you ignored him all these years?” It wasn’t really a question, but she nodded anyway, taking a sip of her tea. Silence fell back for a couple of minutes, but less tense now that they had shared some of their thoughts.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Scott confessed in a whisper, “what he said about the Sheriff and my mom.”

“What?” Lydia asked, and Scott realized she hadn’t been there at the beginning of the fight. He looked away, embarrassed to say it out loud.

“He, um. He said that…they were…doing things. Together.” He glanced up at Lydia to see her looking unimpressed.

“I thought you and Stiles were trying to get them together anyway,” she said with a raised eyebrow but a gentle voice.

“Yeah, well. We always joke about it, being officially brothers and how the two of them are always flirting, but the way he said it made me really uncomfortable. And, I don’t know. If it’s true, why didn’t they tell us?”

“Scott,” Lydia used her reasonable voice, “for all you feel like an adult right now, you’re still a teenager. Parents are allowed their secrets too, and if it’s true and serious you know they would’ve told you eventually. But you can’t blame them for not sharing that kind of thing with _you and Stiles_ , knowing exactly the fuss you two would’ve made about it.”

Scott studied Lydia for a second before huffing out a small laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. Plus, we kept so many things from them, it’s only fair,” he added, but it made him get a faraway look and Lydia knew he was thinking about Stiles again.

“I get how you and me we didn’t know about Stuart before, I mean, I’m a bit pissed that Stiles never told me but I understand where he came from,” Scott said, “but how could it stay secret all these years? Jackson lived here his whole life! And– and Danny too, even Isaac! How did Isaac not know about this?”

“To be fair,” Lydia said after thinking about it, “Jackson never said anything about Isaac being abused by his father and he knew. Or he suspected, at least. Danny just didn’t care to talk about that annoying Stilinski kid, I think,” she chuckled, “and Isaac…,” she drawled out, not sure how to explain that one.

“I was homeschooled,” Isaac said from the doorway to the living room, making both of them jump in their seats. “Couldn’t sleep,” he explained, rubbing at his stomach and padding into the kitchen to get out a mug for himself. “I’m pretty sure Erica knew, though, because she had the biggest crush on Stiles and she said something weird once. I can’t really remember what, though, but thinking about it now...”

He sat down next to Scott, hands a little shaky.

“Are you okay?” Scott asked, pointing at the trembling.

“Yeah, just…didn’t flush out the drugs as quick as Derek I think, and now I’m kinda itchy,” he sniffed, raking a hand through his curls. “The night is still really fuzzy.”

“Sorry, I didn’t think. And we made you stay all night at the hospital without even asking how you were feeling,” Scott grimaced.

“Don’t worry about it,” Isaac smiled, “we’re all worried about Stiles,” he glanced at Lydia as if he was expecting her to scream again at any moment. Lydia looked down at her mug, trying to forget the feeling of Stiles’ name tearing away at her throat like Allison’s had not so long ago.

She tried to forge, also, her own theory about being the reason Stuart gave Stiles that awful scar on his chest. She was desperately grasping at the thought that the abuse had been going on for a while already, that she hadn’t caused it.

“Even you?” Scott joked, lightly punching Isaac’s shoulder, pulling Lydia out of her thoughts as quickly as she had drowned in it.

“Yeah,” Isaac smiled, “even me. What can I say, I like to snark at him and annoy him as much as he annoys me. I hope he’ll be okay,” he finished more quietly.

“Yeah. Me too.” Scott whispered into his mug.

 

The first time Derek went home to change, just after that first short visit to Stiles, he crashed hard. It was a wonder he managed to open his front door at all with his violently shaking hands, and as soon as he was inside he leaned against the wall and slid to the floor.

He couldn’t stop the shivers that ran through his whole body, the cold seeping in his bones. He couldn’t stop crying and for a minute he was absolutely certain that his lungs would never expend again.

It took time and the prick of his claws in his own palms to calm down. He absently showered, ate what little he could stomach, and went back to the hospital.

Two days later, Stiles still had to wake up but he breathed without any help. Derek had barely left the hospital to change, alternating with the Sheriff to go change or when the man went to see Stuart. Scott was there as much as them both, though his mother made him go home more often to rest properly.

The rest of the Pack came around a little less because they couldn’t crowd Stiles’ room, but they could often be seen haunting the halls of the hospital to wait for their turn to see for themselves how Stiles was doing.

They were all looking better by the day, now that the direct threat was over and that Stiles, even still asleep, was on his way to recovery.

But the fear of losing Stiles despite the doctors’ best reassurances was rooted in Derek’s guts.

There had been a time when Derek had been ready to run away and leave his feelings for Stiles behind. Stiles hadn’t let him, arguing that in everyone’s life there were possibilities of things going wrong. So why not enjoy the good things while you can, no matter how much it could hurt later on?

Here, sleep deprived and feeling torn open by the worry and the terror, the knowledge that he had been too close to lose Stiles…hurting in too familiar ways, he…he couldn’t bring himself to regret staying to love Stiles fully.

The door quietly opened and Derek knew who it was without having to tear his attention away from Stiles’ heartbeat and the rising and falling of his chest.

The Sheriff dropped down in the opposite chair, looking at Stiles for a long moment before raising his eyes to Derek who finally turned to him. John was in his civilian clothes, but smelled of the station.

“They’re done with me, for now,” he announced in a tired voice. “They’ll be hearing the rest of you tomorrow.” Derek nodded, even if he already knew all that. John sighed. Derek couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been to lie about what happened in an official investigation on top of everything else.

He could’ve lost his job a hundred times during this whole mess. Taking evidence from the station, sneaking out files, hiding important facts including the identity of the murderer. And if Stiles had a dubious morality, he certainly didn’t take it from his father, making things even more difficult for the man.

Still, they had all agreed on a story, and it would hold. Mostly because they managed to keep it inside Beacon Hills’ limits, and the deputies had seen enough weird shit to know when to avoid digging too deep.

This town was a real clusterfuck.

“I remember,” John started, voice thick with emotion, “that day, when, uh–” he paused. Derek was surprised, because they had only talked about what to do with the investigation so far, or stayed silent. He didn’t know why the Sheriff was suddenly willing to share personal feelings with him.

“I remember hearing him scream,” he continued in a professional, detached way, and Derek knew immediately what he was talking about. He stayed very still, feeling like an intruder at hearing this, “Claudia and I were just coming back from some errand, I don’t remember, but I opened the front door and I heard a shout and then nothing, and I couldn’t tell which one of them it was.

“I almost didn’t go upstairs, thinking they were just playing. I honestly don’t know what would’ve happened if I didn’t, I mean I don’t think–” he paused to clear his throat, his emotions coming back to the surface for a second before he ruled them in, “I don’t think Stuart would’ve done more, but maybe he would’ve made Stiles stay quiet, I– I don’t know. Maybe not.

“I keep asking myself how I didn’t see anything. I’m a law officer, I see victims of abuse way too often and…,” he sighed, putting a hand at the back of his neck. “He was on Stiles, and there was blood on them both but Stiles wasn’t moving. For a second I was frozen, all I could see was the knife. I thought he had killed him, I thought it had been an accident...I don’t know.

“It’s so fast, there’s too many things in your head for that second it takes to react, it’s hard to tell.” There were tears in the man’s eyes, and he fell quiet again.

Derek couldn’t imagine what it had been like. He thought about Peter and Laura and wondered if it was the same, if between your uncle and your own kid there was a difference in finding out just how twisted they were. Finding out that they had hurt their own family.

Mostly, Derek thought that the biggest difference had been his lack of surprise at Peter’s crime: he wasn’t violent before the fire, but he was already manipulative and sometimes in downright mean ways.

“I don’t even know where Stuart has been during all those years,” John whispered after a long time, “he escaped just after his mother’s death. We looked for him everywhere for months.”

Derek didn’t ask where Stuart had escaped from. He let the silence take them again, only thinking that he was glad the kid was going to jail this time. And would never get out in his lifetime.

 

That night, as Derek came back from getting food for the Sheriff and himself, Stuart woke up. His angry screams could be heard on the whole floor, before he was sedated by frantic nurses and doctors. Derek didn’t really care, aside from the pity he felt every time he thought about the Sheriff having to deal with it.

Stuart being awake meant that he was alone when he got back into Stiles’ room. Now, being a werewolf didn’t necessarily mean that Derek believed in every myth. Vampires, demons; as far as he was concerned, those didn’t exist. The mystical bond between twins fell into a less certain category.

So he didn’t really know what to think when, ten minutes after Stuart, Stiles opened his eyes.

His eyelids fluttered, gaze unfocused on the ceiling; mind foggy from the drugs, the previous blood loss and the general exhaustion of having his body healing. For a moment, he existed in a time where no injuries, pain or bad memories existed.

Derek watched in fascination, unable to move for long seconds as the breath was knocked out of his lungs by the relief and happiness of seeing Stiles awake. Then, he lunged out of his seat, reaching for the call button that he pressed frantically, eyes never leaving Stiles’ face.

He saw him get more conscious in increments, pupils retracting to focus on his environment, following the line of Derek’s torso to reach his blinding smile. From then and until the nurses barged into the room with loud noises and pushed Derek back, they were in a pocket of time so still it felt like the eye of a storm.

They locked eyes, Stiles managing a small smile of his own. Derek bent down to press a light kiss on his forehead.

And then it was over.

People were all around, Stiles went from peaceful to a bit more alert as someone got him water and asked him questions, the Sheriff walked in panting like he ran to get here. Derek stayed in a corner of the room, and waited until he could hold hands with Stiles again.

 

“Hey there,” Derek whispered. Stiles had fallen asleep again after the nurses left, but he was slowly waking up again.

“Hey,” Stiles breathed out without any real sound. Derek squeezed his hand and got up to get him a cup of fresh water. After carefully sipping it, Stiles looked around to find his dad uncomfortably asleep in the other chair.

Derek tracked the slow realization on Stiles’ face, the way he tilted his head on the pillow, frowned, hands twitching on the sheets. “Wha…,” he tried to say, still a bit too tired to articulate clearly.

“You’ve been fixed up nicely,” Derek said instead of the number of things Stiles probably wanted answered, “you’ll be out of the hospital soon enough.”

Stiles blinked at him. Then a soft snore and a cough made him look back at his father to see him jerking awake. John cleared his throat before focusing on Stiles, a little smile forming on his lips.

“How’re you feeling, kid?” he asked quietly, leaned towards the bed to run a hand in Stiles’ hair. Stiles’ eyebrow turned sad instead of confused and his eyes filled with tears, and Derek and John just leaned closer in a need to comfort him without really knowing how to.

“’m sorry dad,” Stiles finally whined out, heart monitor translating the slight quickening of Stiles’ heart in annoying bipping. “Stuart, I didn’t want–” he started, interrupted by a sob and the following hiss of pain when it jarred his abdomen injury.

Derek reached out to take any pain that the morphine didn’t cover, refraining from saying out loud how much Stuart didn’t deserve the sentiment, didn’t deserve Stiles’ beating himself up for hurting him when the guy never had such reservations concerning his brother.

“Shh, Stiles,” John whispered, “it’s okay, he’s alright, he’s alive.” It took all of Derek’s willpower not to growl. It wasn’t his family -his blood family, that is- so it wasn’t his place to react that way where the Sheriff and Stiles could hear and see it. He could relate in a way: despite all, Peter had still been his uncle. He hadn’t been able to smother the relief and happiness when Peter found a way to come back to life.

Derek chased the complicated past and thoughts away from his mind, focusing on Stiles distress. He was tiring himself out again, and would probably fall asleep again soon.

John looked at his kid and a part of him that he hated just wanted to close his eyes and get as far away from the hospital as possible. The bigger part of him was still a parent, still loved his son, so he dealt with the guilt at thinking that he didn’t want to have to deal with all this and kept comforting Stiles.

The image of Stiles so upset superposed with the visits with Stuart in a disturbing way. Almost grotesque. The rooms looked basically the same, the machines, the kid in the bed -if you excluded the gash on Stiles’ cheek now- it was a difficult game of spotting the differences.

And still. Even before Stuart woke up there was something inherently wrong about the air around him. John knew it was his own bias that spoke, the knowledge of everything Stuart did wrong, because evil wasn’t written on his face when he was asleep, but…It felt almost physical, the darkness.

And then he woke up, and his rage and jealousy, his inner ugliness showed. It nauseated John, it left him feeling off kilter. He did this. He fathered this, and then was blind to this, and he wanted so much to consider Stuart as unhuman in a way even creatures of the night weren’t, but he was a cop and a father.

The worse criminals were humans too, no matter how much we didn’t want them to so we didn’t have to face what we could become, given the wrong push.

The worse criminals were sometimes normal people’s kid and blame was a heavy and complicated thing. Especially for said parents.

And now, he watched Stiles, his tears, his belief that he was poisonous and bad, the pain that he had to live with on his own and the darkness around his heart and the way the Nogitsune left him with marks. No scar, just a way of holding himself to look smaller. Circles under his eyes. And a reinforced conviction that something was wrong with him.

Life was unfair that way.

But he would be there every step of the way, in helping Stiles. And Stuart would be sent away for good.

He shuddered. He couldn’t help but be scared of his _own son_. Stuart had sneaked up on two werewolves. If he hadn’t wanted to play the long game to get to Stiles, they could’ve all been dead before they even realized what was happening.

John pushed back the intrusive image of the sword that was now locked up as evidence and watched Stiles’ tears dry up as he fell back asleep. Looked over at Derek, knowing he wouldn’t be alone to help Stiles.

Turned his head when Scott shyly knocked. The whole Pack was there and waiting, relieved by the news that Stiles was finally back.

It wouldn’t be easy, the road ahead of them. But they were all here. That’s what mattered.

 

12♦ _Mom’s dead, ~~I can still feel her cold~~ and dad called to tell Stuart right after the funeral. He escaped. Dad didn’t want me to hear about it so soon, but I heard. I always hear. ~~I wish Stuart was here~~ Stuart owned me, but he really loved mom. I’m sure he’s crying ~~and~~_

18♦ _It’s over now. I’m home. Everyone’s alright. Stuart’s gone. It’ll still take time to fully believe that, though. I don’t care. I got back up after the Nogitsune, I can get back up after this too. I’ll find a way to make up for the new lives lost by my fault. So here I go. I’ll make it a good one._

.

.

.

20♦ _Okay, I’m ready._

 

Sitting down face to face with his brother with a glass separating them really made it feel like looking in a mirror. As a taunt, maybe, Stuart had let his hair grow back.

Stiles was past letting it get to him.

He wasn’t his twin. He wasn’t the Nogitsune. And he had nothing to do with either kind of fucked up. Nothing would ever erase the years of hearing that he was less; less important, less smart, less loved, so inadequate and weird, _no one but me will ever love you, look at yourself, who would want that?_ ; Stiles insecurities stemmed from that and had roots that he would never really manage to get rid of.

A toxic garden of weed that you rip out every year to see it grow again and again. The number of his own behaviors that Stiles could explain by going back to his childhood, to his brother, was overwhelming.

So there was no denying that Stuart sill had an effect on him today; but it was the Stuart from the past, and effects that Stiles was fighting every day and was determined to win against. The Stuart from the present, though, Stiles spent the last two years learning to get rid of his influence, his hold on him.

Stiles brought his hand to his ribs involuntarily but consciously dropped them before it could reach them. Something he was still working on with his therapist -his more than once-a-week therapist because he finally admitted he needed it- trying to let go of the phantom scar on his ribs.

“Coming to visit me at last, Sti?” Stuart’s smug voice came from the receiver of the phone in Stiles’ hand, slightly muffled. The gibe didn’t get past the line connecting them, and the twinge of fear and longing and pain that Stiles was afraid to feel never came. He relaxed in his seat.

There were others feeling crowding his chest, but Stiles was almost indifferent while faced with his brother and that meant a lot more than hatred ever could.

Stiles smiled. Stuart narrowed his eyes at that. “Yes, Stuart, I came to visit you for the last time,” he twisted his brother’s words a little. “I think dad will keep coming, but…not me.” And there it was, the faint trace of sadness in his heart twitching at the words.

It felt more nostalgic for something Stiles would never have -a whole and healthy family- than for the fact that he was separating himself definitely from his twin.

He couldn’t remember exactly what his therapist had said about it, something along the lines of being able to let go of the things that we cling to in the hope that it could become good instead of toxic. Stuart was definitely toxic and would never change, and anyway, Stiles had found himself a family. Not whole, not always healthy, but a very good one.

“I just wanted to tell you, I guess…,” Stiles was looking for is words but avoided his brother’s eyes. He had thought of a hundred things to say; a hundred proof that he was free of the never-stopping voice in his head that told him he would never be enough, even if he was aware he would never really be free of it.

Everything felt too far from the core of what he wanted to say.

“I still love you, somewhere deep inside of me,” he finally started.

“I’ll never stop, and when you weren’t an abusive dick we had some good times together. Well, you were an abusive dick most of the time, so it’s not much but still,” Stiles chuckled in the phone, a sound that he couldn’t decide if it was genuine, just sad, or both. Stuart stayed silent.

“For a long time, I didn’t want to acknowledge all the bad because there _were_ those good times, not counting on the fact that you always made me feel like what you said to me was normal and I was the crazy one for being hurt by it. Not– not counting on the fact that you were my whole world, the other half of me,” his voice cracked a bit at that but he reigned his emotions in, took a deep breath to keep going.

“And then for an even longer time I didn’t want to see the good times because of all the bad. It’s a balance to find, I think,” Stiles looked up finally to see Stuart’s blank face. Even after all these years, he could still read Stuart, see the tiny twitches that he couldn’t stop; the traces of emotions. Stuart wasn’t as immune to Stiles’ words as he wanted him to think.

It made Stiles feel a fraction better.

“Now, I’m ready to see both. I’m ready to face the fact that I still love you as a brother, but that you’ll never be who I would’ve wanted you to be. I have Scott for that, hell, even Isaac. Lydia and Malia and Kira. I won’t forget you, but…I won’t feel the need to come and see you either, because I have nothing to prove to you, or to myself.”

Stiles let out a trembling breath. This was hard. He was proud to have managed to say all this without breaking down.

Now that he was done, he relaxed his grip on the phone that he hadn’t realized had become so strong his knuckles turned white; let himself feel the shaking of his hands, the shivers running all the way up to his shoulders. His eyes started to sting with the effort to hold his tears in.

Stuart’s jaw was clenched, his face set in a snarl. Stiles really couldn’t say what his brother was really feeling, but stopped waiting for it to be regret or a sincere realization of all the wrongs he had done. That would just never happen and it was the hardest thing to accept. Stiles still hadn’t entirely yet.

“So that’s it!” Stiles hoarsely declared with a shrug. He tried not to let Stuart’s silent bother him because he knew to take this silence as a defeat on Stuart’s side. But it did bother him a little. He swallowed, studied a last time his twin’s face. Then hang up.

He left without turning back once.

The drive home took longer than necessary, mostly because he had to pull over midway to calm down enough to keep going. Still, the silence and the miles he was putting between the prison and himself let him think more clearly.

He couldn’t help but turn over and over in his head the fact that Stuart hadn’t said a word. It made him feel uneasy, wonder if thinking it was defeat was only wishful thinking. But Stuart was like Stiles in the sense that his best weapons were words. So not saying anything couldn’t be one last way to feel like having the last word, was it?

 Or maybe, a tiny voice at the back of his mind said, maybe he was letting you go.

That was too much hope to have where Stuart was concerned.

Stiles let out a breath of relief when he finally parked the Jeep in front of his apartment building.

Summer being as scathing as usual, Stiles was soaked after walking up the stairs. He put the key in the lock with steady hand and a calm heart. Pushed the door open.

It was silly, but it felt like as soon as the light from inside bathed him, he was safe. The warmth inside of him had nothing to do with the hot summer air, but everything to do with the voice of his Pack, his family, surrounding him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY PEOPLE THAT'S IT! Thanks to all the people who commented so far <3 Hope I did justice to my own story with this ending!   
> **If you've read this far, consider taking 5 more seconds to leave a comment, even the shortest one makes taking time to write worth it <3 **
> 
>  
> 
>  **Time for some end notes you can skip**  
>  1) I always knew this story would be some kind of emotional abuse from siblings story, but I focused so much on the murders and the Pack's POV that I'm not sure I managed to really show the impacts of this childhood on Stiles...I hope the last chapter fixes that!
> 
> 2) My knowledge of actual abuse only comes from what I've been taught about it. So my portrayal of Stiles in this story, especially at the end, is an extrapolation of my own experiences and not an attempt to speak for people who lived through that kind of situation. 
> 
> 3) A huge thanks to my best friend for her help on this (and the very enlightening talk we had about siblings)! And I'm forever grateful to Cami and Frog for enabling me and leaving awesome comments on my stories, I love you guys so much <3
> 
> 4) As far as future stories will go, if you read my stuff, I'm so FUCKING DONE with this story (you have to know that big stories like that are a challenge for me and it's a miracle I got this one and Pain Radiates done) that I'll only write short one-shots for a little while, get rid of some stuff on my ever-growing list of stories to write! BUT! I do have a bigger Creature!Stiles story planned for later huhu
> 
>  
> 
> **That's it! I feel like I forgot something I wanted to say but heh *shrugs* You can come talk to me on[tmurlb](http://kinsbournescream.tumblr.com) I'd be happy to get any message ;) See you for my next story (hopefully)**


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